


Nature of the Dovah

by TomeOfTheAncient



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Civil War, Companions Questline, Drama, Eventual Romance, Family Drama, Found Family, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Skyrim Main Quest, Team as Family, buckle up kids this is a long one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2020-06-30 05:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 122,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19846114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomeOfTheAncient/pseuds/TomeOfTheAncient
Summary: "What is better: to be born good or to overcome one's evil nature through great effort?"A woman who's been hunting and fishing in these parts for years receives a rude awakening and finds out she's more than what she has become. Now she is destined to track far more dangerous game, all while fighting to remain true to herself, discovering along the way that some risks are worth taking.But can what is gained outweigh what was lost?





	1. The Nature of Bonds

  
The silence of the morning was dense, punctuated only by the occasional call of a bird or whisper of the wind amongst the canopy in the deepest reaches of the pine forest. There was a tension in the air as though the very stones and dirt could hold back a breath in anticipation. Even the dappling of sunlight over the thick bed of grass was still, the trees refusing to bend lest they be the first to snap the world. 

Out of the shadows a lithe woman in leather and fur stalked soundlessly forward with an unwavering stare. She cut a wild presence by appearance alone: the left half of her head was made nearly bare by the braids stitched close to her scalp, thick tresses kept long in preference but styled to be out of the way of a bowstring. Streaks of dark blue war paint covered up scars over her left eye and down from the same high cheekbone, complementing the small beads woven into her hair. Her strong jaw was clenched in concentration.

In that moment, she believed there was never a more heroic effort than ignoring the droplet of sweat that rolled down her forehead and collected itself at the tip of her nose, glinting in the half shade like a tiny diamond. The Nord's body tensed down into a crouching position, arrow at the nock, icy blue eyes narrowed in focus. Beside her, a huge shepherd breed dog waited, ready to spring forward. 

Before them stood a gloriously muscled buck, one her small group had been tracking since dawn. It held its crowned head at attention, beady eyes fixed just beyond the treeline toward the road.

_ Perfect _ , she thought, sucking in a quiet breath as she drew her bow, leveling the arrowhead at the deer's chest. One shot at this range should take the beast down. Its pelt would fetch a fine Septim in the nearest town... 

She felt her canine partner shift beside her, his pointed ears perked, nose to the air—patiently awaiting command. However, before she could release the arrow, the animal caught a different scent and bolted further into the brush, barking like a being possessed.

Growling in frustration, Ismene stood and raced after him, watching helplessly as her splendid target took off.

" _ BOW-IN-TEETH! _ BACK!" she roared after him, trying not to lose sight of his sooty hide amongst the undergrowth. The dog was not normally so disobedient or even flighty—he was well trained through months of her own frustrations. 

She flung her hunting bow into its place across her back as she ran toward... wherever the dog decided he was leading her. 

"KJELL! We lost it! Bowin's caught something else!"

Off in the near distance a deep voice cursed loudly, displeasure lacing the heavy Nordic accent. Having given up all pretense of sneaking, booted footfalls shortly joined hers as the pair increased their pace. Soon enough, a tall flame-haired man fell into stride beside her, a scowl etched across his rugged, clean shaven face. He flicked his emerald eyes to the side momentarily, taking in her frustrated profile.

"He's not one to break off on his own. It's been at least three summers since you trained that out of him,” he grunted, “you think whatever he's scented is a threat?"

She was silent for a heartbeat. 

"...I don't think so. The stag we were watching was calm enough. If it didn't react to us until he started with the noise then..." She shook her head, blowing an errant strand of honey-blonde hair out of her eyes. "Doesn't offer much by way of explanation does it?"

A smooth chuckle rumbled out of his chest, unhindered by his short breaths. "No sense in it. He's an animal. Wild at heart even with those begging looks. Learned from the best I suppose."

Despite the embarrassed flush that rolled over her, she snorted, amused with the familiar tease. He was well versed in her attitudes, apparent throughout most of her life. She could not and  _ would _ not turn her belly for anyone actively trying to push her around. It just didn't suit her. A teachable trait, it seemed. 

"Well whatever happened, I just hope it's not one of those damned Spriggans again. I don't think we could break the spell by ourselves and I don't fancy having to put him down."

"Aye, dog pelts are worthless." He grinned cheekily in spite of the hard shove his shoulder received. "Jesting, Is."

The pair slowed to a light jog once they hit the unevenly paved road. They came upon an irate looking, finely dressed Breton woman attempting in vain to calm a chestnut horse at the same time as she was fending off Bowin. 

"Away with you, mongrel!" she shrieked, swiping with her riding crop. Agitated by her shrill voice, the horse snorted and began to paw aggressively at the gravel. He was undaunted, however, and reared up on his hind paws, clamping his jaws around the fittings of a saddlebag. He tugged the strap as he descended, scratching the horse's hindquarters in the process. It whinnied loudly, lashing out with its back leg. The jerky motion caught the furry assailant off guard, and the heavy hoof that made contact with his chest sent him to the dirt with a pained yelp.

_ Divines help me _ , she thought irritably as she brought her index fingers to her lips to release an ear splitting whistle. 

With a whine, ears flattening and bushy tail tucked between his legs, Bowin limped to his master's side at once. Snuffling pitifully, he licked at the hand she dropped to her side. Instead of sympathy, he earned a swift yank from the fist tangled in the scruff of his neck. 

"What's the matter with you, huh?" she demanded. "You know better!"

"That filthy animal belongs to you?!" the traveller snapped hotly, stomping over to where Ismene stooped to keep her firm grip. She stopped short of the hunter, pinned by a sharp look from Kjell over her head. Her blustering attitude did not deflate, "look how it's gouged up my horse! I demand compensation!"

Before either Ismene or Kjell could reply, a low, gravelly voice rasped, "'gouged', eh? Doesn't even look like the skin was broken." The timely arrival, a reedy Argonian man in studded leather and blue wool, closely inspected the horse's flank while expertly ignoring protests from its owner. 

A knowing look passed between the two Nords at the faint gold glow that faded discreetly from underneath his scaly hand.

The woman whipped around, thrusting a finger at the newcomer, "nobody asked you! And keep your claws off my belongings,  _ lizard! _ I know banditry when I see it!" She marched back over and slapped him away to inspect the damage. Finding no wound and presumably all items accounted for, she returned her seething glare to the rest. 

"I don't know what kind of distraction this was, but if I am accosted again be sure that each of you will be hearing from the Jarl's bounty office!" Satisfied with her threat, she didn't spare any of the hunters another glance as she swung into the saddle.

The trio watched the rider trot off down the road in mutual stunned silence.

"What in Oblivion was that about?" the Argonian muttered as he rubbed the point of one of his sharply curved horns. He crossed dark green arms over his chest, flicking bulbous yellow eyes onto his friends. A spiky eyebrow crawled further toward the scarlet feathers cresting his head as he waited for what could only be a satisfying tale.

Content that Bowin had relaxed, Ismene stood up and answered, "your guess is as good as mine. I don't understand what would be so interesting about that horse—or whatever it was carrying—that this one," she gestured to the wriggling dog, "would just drop prey like that. That was some smooth healing by the way. Probably saved us a pocketful. 'Banditry' though? That was a little far."

Kjell broke in, "Leaves, where'd you get off to anyway? Thought we'd've met ya further up."

Leaves-no-Trail bent forward to pick up the thinning pack he’d set down when tending to the horse. 

"I was down the road doing some scouting like I told you earlier. You know, heading off any bears or sabre cats that might pick up on your kill. Which... isn't happening, apparently. Gods, I really thought you two had it. What a shame, that was a fine piece. You up to try again? There must be something left around here that wasn't scared off by that horrible screeching."

"Might as well," Kjell conceded. "There's plenty of daylight left. Ismene? You up for it?"

"I didn't waste any arrows and the string's still taut. If Bowin acts up again I'm just going to head high and make camp. We're not all that far off from Kynesgrove so we can take whatever we catch down there in the morning," she replied. Scratching her dog's head, she started walking down the road. "Let's go boys."

#####   
  


None of them would brand the rest of the day especially successful but it was another story to tell, as if the morning's bizarre encounter hadn't been enough. They had managed to bag two decent sized deer which would likely only fetch enough coin to buy inn fare for a night and hot meals for the three of them, but it would see them through another day. 

After the sun set, bedrolls were laid out around a merrily crackling fire started by a snap of Leaves' Flames spell. They made camp at the crest of a dry bluff overlooking the expanse of mineral springs Eastmarch was famed for. Overhead the sky was filled with a breathtaking amount of stars that glittered in the inky blackness of a cloudless night. 

"You know, we could have been able to squeeze more out of what we got if you'd just been more careful with that spell," Kjell fired out. He and Leaves had bickered the entire way across the plain about whose fault the meager turnout had been.

He clicked his tongue around a mouthful of sharp teeth. 

"Oh quit your bitching. It's only a  _ little _ singed and it's nothing a tanner wouldn't trim off anyway. Strips are just as important as a full cut."

Ismene looked up from her fletching, a small, fond smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she listened to the sniping morph into joking. Life on the road was often difficult and fraught with danger but she wouldn't trade it for all the money or power in the world. The freedom to be  _ anywhere _ without responsibility to anything or anyone save a good friend made her heart sing. Sharing every experience with the two sitting across from her, who she adored as brothers, made it all the sweeter.

The men finally fell silent, leaving the only sounds to be the occasional snip of her shears on the rachis of a stiff feather and the steady scrape of Kjell's whetstone against the blade of one of his hand axes. Leaves caught her eye just before he settled onto his back and a smirk took root on his face.

"What's with that look, huh? You can't honestly tell me you're happy with today," he croaked, leaning back up on one elbow. He pointed to Bowin, who was dozing at her side. "Figure out what made him go berserk yet?"

Kjell chimed in, "five Septims says he smelled skooma on that woman."

She threw a bent arrowhead at him. "Quiet you," she ordered with a laugh. "I won't pretend to know what goes through his mind on any given day." She passed a soothing hand through the thick fur at the base of the dog's neck. "Doesn't matter. He's saved all of us at least once so one slip up can be forgiven." A crease formed in her forehead at the scrutiny she received from the large redhead where he sat across the fire. "What?"

"If it was either one of us that threw the hunt we'd never hear the end of it." He nudged Leaves' foot where it stuck out of a pile of furs with the hand holding the sharpening stone. "Ain't that right? Sometimes I think she loves that mutt more than both of us combined." A muffled laugh from inside the Argonian's tent was his only response.

She rolled her eyes and put down the newest arrow and set about cleaning up the debris from her crafting. "Well I will say this: he is a lot better looking than  _ 'both of you combined' _ ," she mocked. She raised a gloved fist, "watch throw on three—"

"One," started Leaves.

Kjell went on, "two."

Finally, "three," from Ismene. At once their hands flew up, each poised in a different gesture. A groan from Kjell marked him as the loser of the game and the winner of the first watch. "Don't forget to wake me, I'm second."

"Aye, aye. Just get some sleep."

"Shut up already!"

#######   
  


Under the cover of building rain clouds the small band rose early the next morning to swiftly and quietly pack away their things. It was without much discussion and within the necessity of haste—if only to stay ahead of the incoming storm—that they traversed the plains toward the blessed trees of Kynesgrove. 

A suspicious lack of activity accompanied them, though it was mutually agreed that the presence of a giant herding its small flock of mammoths was the likely cause. Unfortunately their string of recent ill fortune struck again in the form of an early wave of chilly rain and biting wind just as they came within a kilometre of their destination.

At last, a cry of relief erupted out of each of them as the first fences along the road came into view by evening. Bedraggled, irritated, and thoroughly soaked they broke into as fast a run as they could, laden with fresh meat and soggy skins. Four sets of feet pounded up the short wooden steps to the Braidwood Inn. 

Warmth from the large hearth fire in the centre of the long hall flooded over them as they filed over the threshold one by one. The innkeeper called out to them, his greeting morphing into a warning as Bowin sent mud and rainwater spraying all over the floor when he shook out his coat.

Wordlessly, Ismene dropped what remained of her supplies beside one of the few empty chairs scattered around the room, which Leaves-no-Trail sank into with a loud moan of relief. She heard Kjell drag another over to where their friend sat as she made her way over to the counter at the far end of the building. She gave a curt but apologetic nod to the man standing behind it.

"Welcome, traveller," he said gruffly, resting his bulky arms on the scrubbed surface. "You all look in desperate need of a warm bed and some cold mead. We can provide both, so long as your pet doesn't make a bigger mess. My wife would go ballistic. She already had to mop up after a pack of those Imperial dogs. Last thing she needs is to do so  _ literally _ ."

A Legion had passed through? Not particularly surprising, this was a well known rest stop, but wasn't this Hold under Stormcloak rule? Her nose wrinkled. Having no affiliation one way or the other, the specifics of those politics mattered little to her. 

"He's very well behaved." At his skeptical look, she hastily added, "normally. But yes, the three of us," she pointed back to where her boys were chatting up the bard, "could really go for a hot meal. It's been a rough few days."

" _ Times _ are rough, lass. And if you believe some of the people that come in here, they're about to get worse," the innkeeper muttered as she handed him some coin. 

She didn't miss the way his dishwater hand rose to touch fingertips to the amulet at his throat. Never had she been overtly superstitious in the same way, but then again it had been her idea to affix a symbol of Kynareth to Bowin's collar when he was a pup. She hoped the man's sudden somber mood wouldn't affect his willingness to buy from her.

"We should make best with what we have," she replied with a saying Ingemar Moon-Dog, her grandfather, had been fond of. Of course, he had been referring to crafting with scavenged material but all the same the innkeeper nodded. She cleared her throat. "I do have a few supplies to offload here... fresh meat and raw pelts if you're in need of furs. I'm not sure what condition the Legion left your larder in..."

A few minutes later, Kjell reached out and shook a dozing Leaves by the knee. "She's back," he said, ignoring his scowl, then to Ismene, "well? How'd you make out? Are we rich?"

The woman wove through the collection of chairs and gingerly set a steaming bowl of stew in each her friends' laps before claiming the last empty seat for herself. 

"Not quite but I managed to unload everything and got a cut on the price of supper. Turns out a little political sympathy goes a long way."

Leaves' spoon halted halfway to his mouth. "You didn't get us conscripted, did you?"

"Gods no," she snorted. "Could you imagine? Any of us on the battlefield? It'd be a waste of equipment. His wife is going to collect what we brought in. Oh, before I forget..." She dug into the leather pouch at her hip and withdrew a small but stuffed coin purse. "Hold out your hands..."

Ever the wise-ass, Kjell complied, stretching his open palms toward her, a broad grin on his face. "Oh yes thank you, O Generous One," he grovelled teasingly. 

"Very well, what you deserve for your share of the work is..." she pressed a single gold coin into his hand, earning a wild laugh from Leaves, and an exaggerated pout from him. Shaking her head, she doled out the remainder. She discarded the empty sachet in the hearth and picked up her own spoon, blowing on the hot soup. It was pleasantly flavourful, in her opinion, and well worth the money.

After a lengthy but companionable silence, Leaves spoke up, “I think we should travel south after this, maybe head into the Rift. More forest cover and it’s a little warmer.” He stopped to thank the serving girl that came to collect their dishes and to take a swig of his mead. “Doesn’t Ivarstead have a better market for us anyway? They get pilgrims through there so I’m sure they could use the supplies.”

“What, not going to push for Riften proper? Have a falling out with that lovely little lizard of yours?” Kjell leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs, chin on folded hands. A glint of wicked interest shone in his eyes.

“Do you always have to bring her up? I told you—and you were  _ there _ —I’m not going back, not after last time,” he grumbled. He cast a waspish glare at the teasing Nord before draining his bottle. “And if it happens again, I’ll shove a pair of antlers so far up your ass they’ll sprout from your ears!”

Deciding that was not an argument she wanted to get in the middle of, Ismene whistled softly to Bowin, rubbing his ears after he ambled over. She grimaced at the sticky mud that came away on her fingers.

“Alright you,” she murmured, “outside.” The two slipped away toward the door, unnoticed by the men whose bickering looked likely to come to blows any second. 

Unfortunately, upon discovering that the rain continued to drive mercilessly down, it seemed as though they would be staying the night after all. Thankful for the thatch awning, she sat on the wooden bench and watched as the dog descended the steps with his nose to the ground. 

The string of bad luck that hung over their endeavors as of late was beginning to worry her. The sparse scattering of wildlife—apart from the more dangerous variety—and even Bowin’s behaviour felt unsettling, abnormal. Of course, it was entirely possible that she was simply overthinking these things, but she had spoken with former hunters in the past who had been forced to give up their lifestyle by insignificant affairs. It was just easier to make a living where work was steady. 

She sighed, trying to clear her head of troubling thoughts. She had to reassure herself that things would turn out, and if she had Kjell and Leaves by her side, no danger would be too great. Her frown eased into exasperation when Bowin trotted back up to her and deposited his wet forequarters into her lap, tongue lolling in a canine grin.

“You did that on purpose,” she chided, poking his nose, “you knew I was finally dry, didn’t you? Silly dog. Trying to cheer me up. What would I ever do without you?”

His only response, being a dog, was a loud bark and a lick on the cheek.

######

  
The following day dawned sunny, though colder than the one before. The air was crisp and filled with promise as well as billowing puffs of breath. Well rested and bellies warm with food, the trio left Kynesgrove in high spirits. 

“I’m calling it,” Kjell announced once the hamlet was out of sight. He was the most boisterous, and his energy was infectious. “We’re going to get something good today. A legendary find. I’m talking….” he spread his hands and held them up above both ears. “Elk. Healthy, with horns big enough to gore a troll.”

“You’ve jinxed us is what you’ve done,” Leaves-no-Trail remarked from his place in front. He threw a withering look back at them. “And that was a pretty specific choice of words. If  _ you _ end up getting gored  _ by _ a troll… I feel like saving my magicka today, but I have a clean needle and plenty of gut.”

“You can’t still be pissed at me for the Riften comment!”

“Of course not. I’m just giving you something to remember for the next time talking about it crosses your mind.”

Ismene had been able to ignore the petty squabble the two had engaged in for a vast majority of the evening prior but it was getting on her nerves. 

She yelled from the rear, “any more fighting between you two and a troll will be the  _ least _ of your worries! I’m in the mood for target practise!” As if to punctuate her statement, Bowin let out a clipped yowl.

“Yes,  _ mother _ ,” the men grumbled in unison. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t threatened before, and never followed through on it. 

She frowned at their uninspired response; they weren’t taking this seriously. Maybe their struggling was a result of flagging teamwork? They used to be a well oiled machine that could put Dwemer automations to shame. Maybe they still were, and  _ she _ was perceiving things differently, feeling problems that weren’t really there.

The three of them had been together since they were children, still inseparable long after each of them came of age… A flash of dread washed over her. What if they were starting to outgrow each other? Was the day she no longer found Kjell’s boyish ways endearing approaching? Would she lose patience with Leaves’ brusque demeanor? Were they tiring of her wanderlust? 

A surprising amount of distance was covered without her noticing, having been too absorbed by her own thoughts. She was jarred back into reality by the arm that abruptly flung itself into her chest, halting her movement and sweeping the breath from her lungs. Her eyes snapped into focus and the indignation died upon her lips when she saw that all three of her partners were armed and alert. She squinted past them, drawing her bow.

Then she saw it. 

Standing just to the side of the path, mouth full of foliage, was a thickset elk just like the one they’d dreamed up that morning. Stunningly beautiful with glossy, snow white fur from head to hock, and definitely worth a fortune. It was as if some power had heard them and decided to throw some windfall their way.

Quietly, Ismene crept off the road while keeping the animal in sight. Pulling a steel tipped arrow from her quiver, she drew a breath and pulled back the string. 

She wasn’t given the chance to fire because Bowin bolted forward again, snarling like mad. This time, however, he had an identifiable reason: a trio of jet black wolves had joined the hunt.

Startled by the sudden noise, the elk screamed and ran. Not about to lose it to the beasts, Kjell launched himself at the wolves, swinging his axes with an executioner’s accuracy. A sickening crack and a high pitched whine faded into a cry of triumph as his blow found purchase.

The remaining pair doubled back then surged forward, intent on avenging their pack mate. The smaller, more cunning of the pair lunged at him, jaws wide and ready to crush. A slate and tan blur knocked it off course as Bowin slammed into it, scrabbling to maintain his own toothy hold on the beast’s neck. 

The sounds of the dogfight decreased in volume as Ismene thudded past the brawl, hot on Leaves’ and the elk’s tails. The animal was blindingly fast, and if it wasn’t for the residue from the Argonian’s frost spells, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep up. The chase led her off the worn path and into the bush, though not far enough to warrant its sure escape. 

By the time the icy clues became more frequent, she was breathing heavily, face and palms slick with sweat. A crease formed on her forehead as she frowned in consternation. Who did those voices belong to, coming in from up ahead?

Eventually, she cleared the treeline and into a large open concept settlement. Adjacent to where she panted, a small house with a fenced in wheat field obscured her view of the source of the noise. Several men were shouting angrily and she could hear the sound of metal on metal—was there a battle of some kind going on? Having caught her breath, she crept around the side of the cottage to observe. Her eyes widened at what she saw.

A small collective of Stormcloak soldiers was trying and failing to hold off what looked like an entire Legion platoon. There were several men and women in blue kneeling bound and gagged near a wagon on the opposite side of the clearing. She couldn’t stop herself from crying out when she discovered Leaves-no-Trail among them.

That anguished outburst proved to be her undoing when she felt a pair of hands seize her bow and quiver and then grab her roughly by the upper arms.  _ Detected _ . The individual forcibly turned her to face him. 

“Well now what have we here? Reinforcements? Hey Aurelius! Got another one.”

Snarling like an angry sabre cat, Ismene struggled, “what are you talking about? Get your hands  _ off _ me! Let me go!” 

The Legionnaire ignored her command, opting instead to use his height and weight advantage to secure her to his side. The sharp tip of the dagger he held to her throat was the better deterrent.

“Fighting back will only make it worse for you, just like your friends there,” he said, jerking his head toward a pile of Stormcloak corpses. The sight had her faltering only for a moment, but it was enough to allow him leverage to drag her along. “That’s a good girl.”

Once the wagon and prisoners were within reach, she was taken by a different soldier, a woman, who wrenched her hands together, securing them with abrasive twine. The trapped hunter tore her glare away from her captor’s almost businesslike countenance in order to try catching Leaves’ eyes from where he sat down the line. Her heart lurched into her throat at the sight of the dark blood rolling down his snout from a wicked gash that slashed into his crest. Either they had caught him completely by surprise or had mistaken his spells as an attack and had retaliated. A loud, furious growl rumbled in her chest.

“Release us!” she demanded. “Myself and the Argonian, we’re not with the rebels! We don’t belong to the Stormcloaks!” She started forward, but was pushed back by the same soldier who had bound her.

“So they all say,” she sneered. “Shut up and stay where you are.”

Her glare darkened and she spat back, “it’s good to see the Empire has fallen so far that it’s now taking civilians captive. Must be a nice bonus waiting for you back in Solitude.” 

The soldier grabbed fistfuls of the front of her fur lined cloak, hauling her in close. She could feel warm breath on her face as the woman hissed, “hold that tongue of yours or I will  _ cut it out _ .” 

Ismene was shoved bodily away from her aggressor, the motion nearly enough to push her over completely. She sent a black look into the Legionnaire’s retreating form, baring her teeth in defiance, but bit back the words bursting at her lips. 

Spirited but not stupid.

By that time, the battle had come to its natural conclusion, with the Legion having thoroughly routed the Stormcloaks. Those who yielded were taken prisoner and the rest who didn’t bend sent to Sovngarde. The question was, what would become of the hunters? Were they to be jailed until the flesh rotted from their bones, hung by the city gates as examples?

A jolt of fear blazed through her, hot and brief like lightning. She trembled as she watched the commander speaking with the assembled soldiers.

Finally the leader turned and addressed them, his dark, passionless eyes glossing over each face. 

“In an orderly fashion, each of you is going to board a carriage. Quickly and quietly. Anyone who speaks dies,” he instructed shortly with the voice of someone going about casual daily affairs. He opened his mouth to continue, but a yell broke the terse silence.

“CUT ‘EM LOOSE!” 

All heads turned to the source of the voice, a red haired Nord standing off by the smelter at the edge of the field. His face, though dirty and smudged with blood, was twisted in a ferocious grimace. Kjell raised one of the twin axes he held as he walked forward, the light catching the edge with visible sharpness. In that moment he looked like a hero of old. 

“Those two,” he pointed his weapon at Ismene and Leaves in turn, “have done nothing to deserve what you’ve done to them.”

The commanding officer sighed, pinching his brow. “Now the woodsman’s come out to play saviour. I don’t have time for this. If he wants to die too, let him. Just make it quick, we’re due in Falkreath Hold and I don’t need the Captain breathing down my neck any more than she might already.” 

At his dismissive gesture, two soldiers drew their gladii and raced forward with matching battle cries.

Ismene’s entire body tensed, her eyes going wide in horror. Her friend was strong, but warding off wolves and going toe to toe with two trained swordsmen were two  _ very _ different things. 

The clashing of blades once again filled the air, punctuated by occasional taunts and frequent grunts of pain. Able to block with one axe, Kjell leveled a backswing at his nearest foe with the other, catching him across the chest. The spray of blood that erupted from the soldier was visible even from across the field. 

Hope surged through her at the sight of the man collapsing; maybe he would be victorious! She fully believed in him and his strength. The feeling was ruthlessly extinguished, however, as the second Imperial manoeuvred around the Nord while he was occupied. Her pulse thudded loudly in her ears and time seemed to stop as the silvery tip of a sword thrust its way out of Kjell’s heart from behind. His knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground lifelessly.

The bloodcurdling scream that ripped out of her drowned out even Leaves’ raw cry. Ismene shot to her feet, bindings be damned, and darted across the clearing. Hot tears blurred her vision, rage and sorrow suffocating her as she ran. The cry of ‘ _ seize her! _ ’ went unregistered and she pushed forward, intent on getting through by any means necessary. Biting and kicking like a savage, she buffeted those standing in her way, desperately trying to get to him. She came close enough to watch Kjell’s blood rolling away from his body when she was tackled from both sides, finally detained by two of the burlier Imperials. 

“ _ NO! _ LET GO OF ME! BASTARDS! YOU KILLED HIM!  _ YOU KILLED HIM!” _ she bellowed, voice hoarse with grief. She flailed her legs and twisted her torso in futile attempts to escape.

The last thing she heard before a strike to the back of her head sent her into unconsciousness was a long, mournful howl.

  
  



	2. The Nature of War

  


A dull ache throbbed from her brain into her whole body, coiling in her belly and making her nauseous. The creaking and swaying of the wagon she rode in did not help relieve the churning of her guts. She kept her eyes screwed tightly shut, not wanting to be a part of whatever was to happen next. Wanted it all to be a nightmare she could wake up from. 

Fresh tears leaked out from between squeezed eyelids and rolled down her cheeks, leaving tracks in the dust that covered her face. Over and over Kjell’s death replayed in her mind. It couldn’t be true, it just couldn’t! There was no way, none of it! At last she opened her eyes to stare blankly at the passing landscape beyond the opposite rail of the carriage.

A man’s voice from her left put a crack in her denial. 

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake,” he coaxed quietly. He was a fairly typical Nord: blond, bearded and muscular with strong facial features, wearing Stormcloak armour. “You were trying to cross the border right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush same as us and that thief over there.”

“I wasn’t,” she rasped. _We weren’t_ , she thought bitterly, swallowing back a sob. She was afraid to even imagine what became of Leaves-no-Trail, whose absence she was far too aware of, or even her poor sweet Bowin. It would break her completely.

A second man, who she supposed was the thief the first had referred to cursed hatefully. 

“Damn you Stormcloaks... Skyrim was fine until you came along! Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you I’d have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell,” he spat. He turned his gaze on the bereaved woman. “You there, you and me, we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”

Ismene knew it. By Kyne did she know it. She couldn’t muster the words to reply.

Instead, the Stormcloak did, his tone flat, “We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now.”

The men fell quiet, each watching listlessly as the terrain rolled by. The thick forest slowly thinned as they went, giving way to signs of settlement. A squat picket fence here, cleanly chopped trees there. A rabbit bounded up alongside them for a metre or so before scarpering back into the bushes.

As though unable to stand the squeak of the wagon’s wheels, the thief spoke up again.

“What’s wrong with him, huh?” He jabbed an elbow in the direction of a fourth individual, this one dressed in a fine fur cloak as opposed to the sack-like attire he and Ismene had been shoved into. He was certainly distinct looking, with that noble brow and livid stare yet…. She couldn’t place his face from the attack. Perhaps he had come along after she’d been knocked out. 

“Watch your tongue!” the soldier barked. “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the _true_ High King.”

In disbelief, the thief said, “Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You’re the leader of the rebellion... if they’ve captured _you_ ... oh _gods_ , where are they taking us?” Undisguised fear overtook his scrubby features.

“I don’t know where we’re going, but Sovngarde awaits.” Whoever he was it certainly sounded like he had accepted his fate. That was fine. Nobody else had to.

The thief began to panic. “No, this can’t be happening! This isn’t happening!”

A dangerous mix of emotions roiled under Ismene’s skin. Anger and betrayal at the Legion that captured her for no reason, gut wrenching heartache at, presumably, losing both her best friends to the same, and now terror at facing her own impending demise. It was ironic. Hadn’t she just been worrying about having her lifestyle fade away? About the three of them drifting apart? 

Her teeth ground against each other with the unfairness of it all. She was glad the others seemed to be ignoring her, even if the shred of denial that never went away still wouldn’t allow her to weep openly. Feeling suddenly empty and detached, she tuned back into their conversation.

“Hey, what village are you from horse-thief?”

“Why do you _care_?”

The Stormcloak’s voice was hushed, almost defeated. “A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.”

“…Rorikstead. I’m from Rorikstead.”

Ismene’s home had been her friends.

Memories of the years they had travelled Skyrim’s wilds together, and even before, threatened to overwhelm her. Two Nord children happily wrestling in the dirt even as her mother scolded them. A young Argonian boy leading her by the hand to the edge of a dock in order to show her the tiniest mudcrabs she’d ever seen. The laughs they shared, the successes and failures, hell, even the pointless fights. She wanted them all. By the gods, how had it gone so horribly wrong? She sniffed and released a shuddering breath, pressing the knuckles of her tied hands to her mouth in order to stifle a whimper.

At the corners of her blurring vision, she saw that they had at last rolled under a gate and into a town. Hadn’t that one Imperial said something about Falkreath?

The soldier spat out, “Look at him! General Tullius, the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn _elves_ , I bet they had something to do with this.” He sighed, resignation seeping into his words once more. “This is Helgen... I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Velod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in... Funny, when I was a boy Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe…”

Helgen? Ismene craned her neck around to scan their surroundings. Yes, she recognized some of the buildings. They’d had a good buyer here, before the old man had retired and his son sold the shop. All good things came to an end. Including her life as it would be. Prematurely. 

Eventually the captives were ushered out of the cart and made to file in a line. 

A Legion officer in gleaming armour commanded, “step toward the block when we call your name, one at a time!”

From beside her, the soldier muttered, “Empire loves their damned lists.” If the situation hadn’t been so bleak, Ismene might have laughed. There would be none ever again, from any of them, before the day was out. 

The Legionnaire standing at the head of their group, a brown haired Nord, cleared his throat and announced, “Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.” After the stoic leader took his place amid whispers from the townspeople, the man went on, “Ralof of Riverwood.” This was the chatty soldier from the wagon. Then, “Lokir of Rorikstead.” The horse thief.

Lokir balked immediately as his name was called, terror emanating from his entire body.

“No! I’m not a rebel! You can’t do this!” Without warning he broke the line and began to run back toward the gate. He never made it; the arrows that pierced through his back dropped him to the ground. He didn’t get up.

The Legion commander swept her cold gaze over the rest. “Anyone _else_ feel like running?”   
Satisfied that no one, in fact, would be following Lokir’s lead, the list continued. 

The reader’s face scrunched into a look of confusion. He peered up from the ledger to stare directly at Ismene. “Wait… you there. Step forward. Who are you?”

The last thing she wanted to do was to obey one of these murderers, but she was acutely aware of the archers that were apparently at the ready. Feeling a phantom arrow in her own spine, she inched forward. 

“Ismene Haugen,” she forced out through a clamped jaw. 

The reader’s frown deepened. “…Captain, she’s not on the list. What should we do?”

She wanted to scream. Of course she wasn’t on the gods damned list! There was no need for any of this! Her friends should still be alive! It took every ounce of her willpower not to throw herself at the man in an attempt to throttle him.

“Forget the list. She goes straight to the block.”

The man suppressed a sigh and set an apologetic expression on the hunter.

“By your orders, Captain,” he consented. Then, gently, “I’m sorry. We’ll make sure your remains are taken care of accordingly. Follow the captain, prisoner.”

Woodenly she did, coming to rest beside Ralof. So she really was going to die. Executed, for crimes she didn’t commit. For being in the wrong place at the wrong time. For assumed association with a war she wasn’t a part of. Hadn’t even a stance on. Bile rose into her throat as horror pushed its way up from her toes and settled in her stomach. 

She watched in mute horror as a gray haired Imperial, previously identified as General Tullius, addressed the Jarl among them.

“Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp the throne,” he proclaimed, gloating over his catch. He continued over the indignant snarl let out by Ulfric. “ _You_ started this war, flung Skyrim into chaos. And now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace.”

Without further preamble, the executions began. One by one the number of soldiers diminished but all of them faced their fates with heads held high. She wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

Confused mumbling from most of the assembly followed a distant noise that sounded bizarrely like a roar. It served as an excellent distraction for her as she kept her eyes on the horizon even as the squelch and dull thud of yet another decapitation reached her ears. She quivered violently, valiantly keeping the vomit out of her mouth. 

“Next, the Nord in rags!”

Ismene.

This was it.

The end.

White noise surged in her ears, drowning out whatever last rites the priestess was spouting as her neck was nestled in the bloody chopping block. Her eyes drifted closed as the headsman lifted his axe.

But it never came. 

Instead, the very ground beneath her shook with staggering force. Chaos immediately unfolded.

“What in Oblivion is _that?!_ ”

“Sentries, what do you see?”

“It’s in the clouds!”

“ _DRAGON!_ ”

_What?!_

Her gaze snapped up to the tower above; lo and behold there it sat on wide wings that could rival a ship’s sail. A monstrous beast covered in jagged scales blacker than the darkest night. Wickedly sharp horns curved back out of its skull, framing a crown of spikes that jutted out from its neck and down its back. Claws that could rend a man effortlessly shone dangerously in the morning sun, matching the razor fangs curling out of its thorny jaw. But for all that, its most terrifying feature were the crimson eyes that glowed like embers within the deep crevices of its gnarled face. Eyes that seemed to cut right through her even though its attention was elsewhere. 

This couldn’t be real, could it?

Ismene’s fight-or-flight instinct kicked in abruptly and harshly. A dragon—Divines preserve her—was a good a sign to get away as any. She vaulted to her feet as quickly as she could and immediately sprinted in the opposite direction of the beast and the Legionnaires it had scattered. 

She heard a loud gust of breath be sucked in somewhere behind her and barely had the time to hit the ground and roll away from the massive gout of flame that seared overhead. Scrambling upright yet again, she cursed the bindings around her wrists that, try as she might, she could not dislodge. If she had use of her arms she could run faster, or at the very least keep her balance better.

Screams filled the air, interrupted by the frequent roars of the dragon and the tremors that came from the blazing stones it had conjured falling from the sky. All around her soldiers, prisoners, and townspeople milled about in panic; she didn’t know where to go either and the disorienting mood was infectious like a disease. On more than one instance she was nearly knocked over by someone running blindly for Helgen’s gate. Even if spared the axe, she was going to die here, by her own indecision.

Then, from somewhere ahead among the wreckage, a distantly familiar voice set itself apart. 

“You there, prisoner, to me!” 

She whirled about to find the name-reader beckoning to her.

“No, this way. To safety! Hurry, the guards won’t give us much time!” Another shout, belonging to Ralof. 

It was the last sort of choice she needed in her addled state, but a clear one. Despite the man she ran toward being a follower of the instigator of a civil war she didn’t care for, he wasn’t part of those who killed her kin and tried to take her head as well. Who was to say the Imperial wouldn’t turn her in once they cleared the burning town? The lesser of two evils for the moment, she supposed. It wasn’t personal, not totally—if Ralof knew a way out then she would take advantage of his readily offered assistance.

He lead the way, winding a path through the smoke and ushered her into the base of a crumbling tower. Once inside, he slammed the door shut behind them. In the far corner, Ulfric Stormcloak himself sat hunched on a spindle legged chair. Ralof grabbed up a dagger that was sitting on a nearby crate and swiftly unbound the both of them. 

A barely audible word of thanks slipped out of Ismene’s mouth through her parched throat but it was overwhelmed by yet another earth shaking roar from the dragon. It was still here? What was left to destroy? 

“Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing?” Ralof’s bewildered question echoed in the deafening silence that followed. “Could the legends be true?”

“Legends don’t burn down villages,” the Jarl answered sternly. 

Whatever else he might have said was interrupted by a sudden crash from the upper level of the tower. There was another deep breath then immediately a stream of fire scorched the timbers of the roof directly above.

“We need to move, now!” Ralof ordered, grabbing Ismene by the shoulders. He pointed up the crumbling stairs. “Jump through the roof to the inn on the other side and keep going! We’ll follow when we can!” He released her, turning on his heel and raced out the door they had come through, the Jarl on his heels.

Her heart pounded as she ran up the stairs, evading the fallen wood that burned brightly. The heat from the nearby fires was intense, wicking away any moisture on the surface of her body instantly. She stood, breathing heavily at the edge of the gap he dragon’s attack had created.

As if summoned by her presence, the beast’s great black head reappeared just beyond the hole. Its maw opened, displaying all of its wicked teeth. A glow began in the back of its throat as it prepared to spit more flame. 

Spurred into motion, she leapt from the tower and through the collapsed roof of the inn with a strangled yell, coming to land hard on the ashen floorboards. A sharp pain burst in her knees, but she grit her teeth against it and continued. Eventually she found a section of the town that wasn’t totally on fire, a low building decorated with frayed red banners emblazoned with the symbol of the Empire, a black dragon. Funny how they would display such a thing only for the real deal to decimate their garrison. With that in mind, she yanked open the door and fled inside.

She entered a small room that had tables set up around the perimeter beneath more flags. Barred doors blocked off every other exit. What now? Was she supposed to hide in here like a little mouse from a cat, like the Stormcloak that lay dead in the corner? 

She collapsed heavily against the nearest stone wall, every limb shaking so turbulently it was a miracle she’d remained upright for as long as she had. Her body folded as she wound her arms around her quaking legs, forehead resting against her knees. She wondered if it would be worth her time to pray for some kind of hope…

Her thoughts screeched to a halt when the door she’d come through slammed open with enough force that it crashed against the wall. Letting out a shocked yelp, she jumped to her feet only for her legs to give out. Her palms slapped against the cold floor as she failed to catch her own fall, her teeth coming together with an audible clack. At least she hadn’t bitten her tongue off.

Fortune smiled upon her, however, as the intruder revealed himself to be Ralof. 

“There you are,” he sighed, sounding relieved as he helped the exhausted woman to stand. “I was worried you wouldn’t find the way.”

“What is this place?” her voice was hoarse with disuse. “How do we get out of here?”

“There is a series of tunnels beneath this tower that lead out of the village,” he explained as he searched the drawers in every piece of furniture that had them. “Damn. _Damn!_ There’s no key, and they’ll be here any second! Hurry up and take the weapon and armour off that one,” he pointed to the corpse, “he won’t be needing it anymore. At least it will protect you better than those rags you wear.”

Immediately, her face morphed into an expression of utter disgust. Although it was a practical suggestion that might keep her alive, the part of Ismene’s mind inflamed by injustice chafed at Ralof’s advice. There was no way she was going to masquerade about wearing that uniform! Not when it was accusations of doing so that got her there! On the other hand… she couldn’t be humiliated if she was dead.

“Fine,” she muttered. Forcing back that childish sentiment with great effort, she awkwardly stripped the body and hastily threw the tunic, leggings, and chainmail over her ragged clothing. Being the stark opposite to a tall, burly man, she swam in the borrowed attire. The iron sword felt unbalanced and too heavy in her hands, but then again she _was_ an archer.

“That’s better,” he said approvingly, “Now we need—”

“There they are! Die, rebel scum!” The door flew open for a second time, and a trio of Imperial soldiers filed through, brandishing swords and axes. 

Instantly Ralof sprung into action. With a roar, he brought his weapon down on the nearest Legionnaire, who blocked just in time. Sparks flew off the clashing weapons. He backed up to ready himself for another go, sending a brief look over his shoulder to Ismene, who wasn’t quite sure what to do. 

“Don’t just stand there,” he grunted with the effort of his own guard. “Put that sword to good use and defend yourself!”

She swallowed thickly, tongue parched by heat and ash. She had never fought many _people_ before, much less up close. It was impersonal to take them out with a bow… Still, it was ‘kill or be killed’ in this situation, and she was no frightened doe to stand waiting for the wolf’s jaws to end her. Hefting the blade in both hands, she rushed forward, mimicking the movements she’d seen Kjell practise over and over.

Unfortunately since she wielded a sword and not two hand axes, she put far too much effort into her overhand swing, and with no secondary weight, the movement threw her off balance. She managed a glancing blow on her opponent with the very tip of the weapon which served only to put a small rip in the man’s leather armour and to divert his attention onto her instead of her far more skilled partner.

“Shit,” she muttered as she backpedaled away from the advancing Imperial. A wheeze escaped her as she copied Ralof’s block, finding much more success in the defense than her uncertain attack. Why had she picked up a two handed weapon, for Talos’ sake? Her eyes darted around the scene, hoping there was something, _anything_ , else she could use, if only to keep herself alive to distract the soldier while Ralof took care of the others. 

As the long seconds wore on, she grew panicked and desperate. She’d use an end table leg if she had to. At last, a glint in the dim light off the blade of a dagger caught her eye on the opposite side of the room, not too far from the fallen Stormcloak whose armour she now wore. She needed to get there, fast.

The soldier wasn’t deterred by her flighty movements and pressed forward regardless.

“Stand still so I can put you down!” he growled as he swung at her again. 

Ismene barely evaded the follow up slash, and so the blade cut clean through the blue sash that draped across her torso. She tugged the cloth out from under her belt and threw it at the Imperial, who caught the unexpected projectile in the face. Quickly, she heaved the large sword up but released it at the apex of her pitch. The large, unwieldy missile didn’t go far before it hit the ground with a clatter and skidded to a halt at the Imperial’s feet.

Her unconventional tactics paid off—more confidence than she’d felt over the past two days welled up in her the moment her fingers curled around the leather wrapped hilt of the dagger. She whipped back around to find Ralof advancing on the man chasing her. His movements were by no means subtle and the Imperial deflected his strike with relative ease. 

She looked at the knife she held, swallowing hard. Could she really do it? Could she kill a man? _I have to_ , she thought, raising her arm with the blade pinched in her hand. Calling upon every ounce of her hard-earned accuracy, she sent the knife flying across the room. A satisfying thud told her the throw paid off—the Legionnaire fell forward, dagger sticking out the back of his head.

“Well,” Ralof panted as he sheathed his weapon before he navigated the room, picking at the fallen Legionnaires. “You’re complete rubbish with greatswords but that’s some fantastic aim. I searched the ones I killed and found a key on one of them. You should grab a _smaller_ sword and any knives they’re carrying. We’ll make our way through the tunnels.” There was a sharp click as he unlocked the gate. 

Adrenaline pumped through her veins, bolstered by her lucky strike. Imbued with temporary strength, she strapped a gladius to her belt and clipped on an extra knife. She decided she’d leave the one buried in the man’s skull, feeling a little vengeful at the thought of one of his comrades stumbling upon that sight. 

“I’m ready,” she said, striding through the open bars.

The catacombs beneath the tower were in dismal condition, and they proved to be simple to navigate due to several pathways being partially or even fully collapsed. The unlikely allies met little resistance until they came upon an open area full of cages. Some, including those suspended from the ceiling, still had bodies in them. The smell of the room alone turned her stomach. There wasn’t any opportunity to contemplate the dead—or their varying states of decay—as they were set upon by another group of Imperial soldiers. This time, however, they made short work of them.

“You learn more quickly than I thought you would,” Ralof complimented as he jogged across the room to scout around the corner into the next passage. “There should be some potions somewhere in here, grab them. You may need it.”

“No need to tell me twice.” Ismene trailed around the chamber, gathering whatever usable supplies she could find. She cried out in delight—one of the Imperials they’d felled was carrying a bow! A simple longbow, but functional. She tested out the draw weight and found it suitable. It was lighter than she was used to, but it would be enough to punch through thin armour. Just in case, she kept the sword she carried. Now though, back in her comfort zone, she felt a bit more ready for what could come next.

########

After fighting through several additional groups of Legion soldiers—and one angry bear—Ismene and Ralof finally made it out of the catacombs. They emerged from the mouth of a cave onto the crest of a snow covered slope. The two watched, grim faced, as a speck in the distant sky released a roar that echoed across the landscape. So the dragon had finally given up on Helgen? Was it satisfied that the town was scrubbed off the map thoroughly enough? 

The streaming sunlight and the fresh, smokeless air made her want to drop to her knees in relief. A throbbing headache clawed at her temples and slammed behind her eyes as though the innards of her skull were a smith’s anvil. She’d spent far too long milling about in the smoke and stale air of the tunnels beneath the ruined town. That, and she had been trying to hold back her confusion and misery throughout every moment of relative calm they’d had. 

Falling into step beside Ralof, she finally spoke, having kept her silence for most of the journey. “I still can’t believe that was a dragon. An actual bloody _dragon_. What’s going to happen now?”

“I don’t know, but let’s put it behind us and focus on getting to safety. We survived and that’s all that matters at the moment,” he said as they reached the edge of a road that wound its way down the hillside. A doe flicked her ears and bounded deeper into the bushes when they approached. “Not far from here, if you continue on this path is the village of Riverwood, where my sister Gerdur operates the lumber mill. I’ll take you to her and we can see about getting you cleaned up. Maybe after a bit of rest we’ll think about what to do next.”

“Alright,” she said idly. It wasn’t as though she had any plans. Or anywhere else to go. Anxiety trickled into her mind and sent needles into her veins. Normally the prospect of a blank and free future filled her with joy, but now that she was alone, she felt only dread. 

She couldn’t take advantage of Ralof’s assistance with good conscience much longer; dragging his family of all things into… _whatever_ this was went too far. A frown tugged at her lips as she stared ahead. 

“Say listen… why are you helping me?” _I won’t join you if that’s your price… even if you ask me nicely._

She heard the creak of his armour as he shrugged. “Believe it or not, there are people in Skyrim who will do good things for others,” he said simply. His voice dropped and he stared resolutely down the path. She had to strain to listen to his next words, “Besides, you couldn’t see your face in that wagon.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The meme has ruined me


	3. The Nature of Loss

Riverwood was just as she remembered it: fresh out the mold of a quaint Nord village. In single file, thatch-roofed homes lined the road, doors facing into a wide street. Immediately to the left, a blacksmith hammered away at his forge, whistling as he went about his work. Children ran around, laughing and squealing as they chased a large gray dog, which barked happily. The sight made her chest pinch and she had to fight back the sudden pressure in her eyes, reminded that she no longer had a four legged shadow.

The moment they set foot out from under the gate, an old woman’s warbling broke the image of tranquility. 

“I’m telling you, I saw it! A dragon, in the sky! Clamouring about like the end of the world!”

Ismene’s mouth opened like she wanted to confirm that yes, in fact, there was a dragon, but a large hand clamped around her forearm. Shocked by the sudden contact, she yanked her arm out of Ralof’s grip and held it tightly to her body, sending him a hard look. He returned it with a simple shake of his head.

“Not a good time,” he warned, ignoring her offended expression. “If you tell any of these people what you saw you’ll just cause a panic. Let’s head to the mill so we can get our story straight.”

“That… fine,” she agreed, unable to refute his logic. She watched a young blond man start attempting to console the old lady, who clearly was having none of it. She winced as her protests increased in volume, the sound audible even as she and her guide walked off the road, behind the smithy, and toward the river. 

Across the small clearing beside the water wheel, a burly moustachioed man chopped wood, standing to make a show of stretching and complaining after each log he cut. A slender woman, standing with her arms folded, responded with a waspish comment each time.

“Quit your whining already, husband. There’s a large order from—”

“Gerdur!” Ralof interrupted.

Her eyes widened and she rushed to meet Ralof and Ismene halfway. 

“By Mara’s mercy…” she breathed, embracing him. “You’re alright! When we heard Ulfric had been captured I began to fear the worst, brother. Are you alright? You’re a complete mess. And who’s this? The both of you look and, ugh,  _ smell _ like you were rolling in the cook fire.”

Ralof pulled back out of his sister’s hold. “I’m fine. Just relax,” he soothed, trying to stem her rapid fire questions. “This is… Ismene, was it? It’s only because she lent her skill that…” His voice lowered, taking on a serious edge. “Actually, is there somewhere more private we can discuss this?”

Gerdur reached forward with a nod and took her hand in a brief shake of greeting. 

“Whatever it was you were caught up in, I’m glad you were there to help,” she thanked. Her pleasant face hardened into seriousness as she picked up on his urgency. Turning her head, she barked at the man leaning on the large pile of sawn logs. “Hod, over here.”

Ismene’s jaw tightened and her eyes flashed. The woman was glad she’d been around?  _ She shouldn’t have been there in the first place! _ Her thanks were undeserved, as far as she was concerned. Regardless, in the interest of reciprocating the affability shown to her, she kept quiet.

The bulky woodcutter, Hod, dropped his equipment and sauntered over. He clapped a hand on Ralof’s shoulder and gave him an appraising look, eyebrows raising at the soot that covered the travellers. 

“What exactly is going on here? Why all the need for hush-hush? You look like you’ve been to Oblivion and back.”

Ralof ran a hand through his grimy, sweat dampened hair. 

“Gods, when was the last time I was able to even sleep properly?” he breathed, “Whatever it is you’ve heard about Ulfric… it’s true. We were ambushed outside Darkwater Crossing, almost like those Imperial bastards knew we’d be there. Brought us in to Helgen, set for the executioner’s block. No trial or anything. Traitors, they called us, for what? Fighting for our people?”

Ismene could not hold back any longer. The opening of a forum against the Legion, whose callous behaviour was still so fresh in her mind, burned away the last of her restraint. Rage rolled through her like a summer storm.

“And they didn’t care who it was they took,” she snarled, tears pricking at her angry eyes. Her dirty nails dug into her palms hard enough to draw blood. “Civilians. People who aren’t part of their war. We were passersby! Simple hunters!” Her breathing grew short and laboured. “They—they killed my brothers! And if it wasn’t for that d-damned  _ dragon _ , I would be dead too!”

An uncomfortable silence crawled over the mill. Hod and Gerdur exchanged a glance before the former cleared his throat nervously. “…A dragon you say? As in… a  _ dragon? _ ” he trailed off lamely. 

“I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it myself,” Ralof interjected with a weary sigh. “It was horrible. An entire town, just…  _ gone _ . But... I’m sure this is going to put a dent in the Empire’s plans, for now, Talos willing. And… nobody’s come up the road before us?”

“No, you two are the first, at least that I’ve seen,” Gerdur said softly, setting a sympathetic look on the pair of survivors. “But we’ll be keeping an eye out. Now, come with me.” She gently guided Ismene by the elbow away from the sawmill, across the narrow street and toward a nearby house. A cow stared balefully at them when they passed 

“I’m sorry to hear about your family; I always knew the Legion would stoop that low. We’re all just nameless faces to them. There isn’t much I can do but offer my sympathy and my home, take as long as you need to recover. I'm in your debt for what you did for my brother.” She paused, a crease forming between her brows. “By the Nine… an actual dragon…. This is a problem that needs to be dealt with sooner than later. When you feel up to it… could you travel north to Whiterun and bring this news to Jarl Balgruuf? Riverwood has no guards and we can’t just sit here, defenceless, waiting for the beast to set its sights on us next.”

Wiping her bloodied palms on the trousers of her borrowed armour, Ismene took in a shaky breath before replying. 

“I will. At the very least it might deter any others from making trouble for you. I… would like to prevent more pointless deaths.” 

Gerdur hummed humourlessly. She ushered her into her home, a cozy well stocked place, complete with all the trappings of a busy family life. 

“As long as the Empire insists on allowing the Thalmor to interfere in Skyrim that’s going to be a constant struggle. But that’s why we need to fight back,” she paused, tilting her head as she looked at her guest. “You know, that armour suits you. Are you going to follow Ralof back to Windhelm when you leave? It might give you a constructive outlet for that anger of yours." As an afterthought, she added, "he seems fond of you.” 

Watching the older woman bustle about the house, she shuffled awkwardly further inside. 

“No,” she said firmly. “I don’t want any part in this. I just… want my boys back.” 

She lifted her quaking hands to rub at her itchy eyes. Did she want revenge? The wounds in her heart that bled openly from what was done to her and the others screamed a resounding  _ yes _ . The fear the events at Helgen instilled in her yelled back that trying would only lead to her death. Neither man would howl for Imperial blood; more likely they would tell her to run away and never return.

Gerdur handed her a folded bundle. If she disapproved of her answer, she didn’t say. 

"You’ve certainly been through a lot in a short while. Take your time. It’ll do you no good to keep things bottled up. Here, these are a spare set of clothes of mine that look like they’ll fit you. If you’re going out on the road, I recommend getting properly equipped before you leave. There’s a slow stew in the pot if you’re hungry, and I’ll prepare a bath for you.”

“Thank you, Gerdur,” she mumbled. “I’ll repay you, I’ll… I will leave tomorrow to talk to the Jarl. I’m not… really one to sit still anyway. Like you said, the town needs protecting.” 

“Don’t push yourself,” she was chiding but caring, “you need to be able to  _ make it _ to Whiterun and right now I wouldn’t put money on you getting out of the house without collapsing. I’ll take counsel with Ralof a bit more, and if we can come up with something beyond that, I’ll let you know.”

######

  
Once clean and fed, exhaustion overtook Ismene so completely that she fell asleep in the spare straw cot in the corner of the room as soon as she’d settled herself in it. The comings and goings of the house’s occupants over the remainder of the day weren’t enough to shake her out of her heavy slumber. When she did wake, moonlight streamed through the small windows and pooled across the floor. 

Blinking away the crust that had formed in the corners of her eyes, she needed a moment to re-register where she was. As though sleeping had washed away the barrier she had thrown up to keep her pain at bay, the previous day’s events assaulted her mind with savage clarity. Stifling a noisy sob so as not to wake the others, she curled in upon herself, clutching the dense pillow like a lifeline. 

The dull emptiness in her chest intensified a thousand fold as she cried quietly through clenched teeth. An overwhelming sense of loss settled over her body as though she wore the heaviest armour. There would be no grinning Kjell to repeatedly prod her awake. Leaves-no-Trail wouldn’t be there singing in that deep voice of his as he made sure his things were packed to perfection. No more Bowin to poke his cold nose into everything she did. 

Tears rolled down her misery contorted face for what could have been hours until she had no more energy to let them fall. Lulled once more by melancholy into fatigue, she slipped back into a nightmare filled sleep. By the time she woke again, morning had broken and the family had all departed to go about their day. Privately she was glad of it because, kind as they had been to her, she didn’t feel up to fielding any questions about the dragon.

She swung her legs over the side of the cot and sat hunched as she stared at nothing, willing herself to just  _ get up _ . She had an important task to go about now, something real to keep her moving, to distract her. Letting her eyes focus again, she stood on aching legs and set to washing up. 

Out of courtesy, she neatly folded the blankets she’d borrowed and smoothed out the linens beneath. She strapped on the weapons she’d liberated from dead hands and grabbed a green apple off the table before exiting the cottage.

Squinting against the bright sunlight, she followed the sound of metallic pummeling until her she came to rest at the foot of the steps at the forge. It was true, she was in need of something more suited to her chosen skills to protect herself with but… the Legion had taken everything she had, including her meager coin. As it was she had virtually nothing to offer in exchange for equipment. Chewing her lip she ascended the stairs, trying to work out what to say.

The moment she stepped up the hammering stopped and she found the smith giving her a discerning but amused look. “I was wondering when you’d quit staring and come up here,” he noted. “Gerdur told me you might stop by.”

Ismene blinked, coming to stand beside the workbench as he leaned back on the porch rail, arms crossed. 

“She did, did she? Then I suppose that makes things a little simpler.” Squinting beyond him, she fiddled with the handle of the gladius at her hip. “I need some armour, preferably something light, but…”

“You’ve not a single piece of gold to your name. Aye, she might’ve mentioned. Favour to a friend or not, I have a business to run and I don’t do handouts, understand?” he grunted. “I would get you to do a few things for me around the forge in exchange, but you don’t exactly look the blacksmith type.”

“I’m not,” she agreed, “I’ve got a fair hand at tanning though.” She paused, face flickering into a watery frown for a second. “I used… I was a hunter by trade and I can work hides decently enough. The only metalwork I’ve ever done is crafting arrowheads.  _ That _ I will say is worth the material. Plus there’s my family fletching technique…”

A small smile drifted over his expression. “Is that right?” He pushed himself off the banister and took up his hammer again as he stepped closer to her. Offering it to her handle first he said, “let’s see what you can do. Put your money where your mouth is, hunter.”

########   
  
Two days later than she’d intended, Ismene was finally ready to leave Riverwood. She’d spent most of it working at the smithy with Alvor, and in the evenings chopping wood for Hod, insisting she repay he and Gerdur with more than just an errand to the Jarl. Ralof had shadowed her with amicable chit-chat while she worked, an unexpected bright spot amongst her tragedy. The nights had been restless, but the morning she set to depart she was at least a little better prepared to handle trouble should she find it on the road. 

As she was leaving, a heated argument outside the small general goods store caught her ear.

“…For the last time, Camilla, you are  _ not _ going!” A dark haired man was shouting at an equally angry young woman who held a broomstick in her hand. She looked as though she wanted to ram it somewhere painful.

“Well  _ you _ won’t hire someone  _ and _ you won’t stop complaining about it to anyone who listens! Nobody’s just going to walk up and volunteer!” she yelled back, brandishing her broom like a sword. “So either you let me go, or shut up!”

He advanced on her, catching her wrist in one hand and wrestling the broom away with the other. 

“You go to Bleak Falls Barrow and you won’t come back. You’re no traveller and you  _ certainly _ aren’t a fighter. I won’t send my sister off to die. The answer is no. End of story.” Without another word, he retreated into the building they stood in front of, slamming the door behind him.

The irate young woman let out a loud screech of frustration, kicking a nearby empty cart.

“ _ Argh! _ He won’t even listen!”

“Siblings can be like that," Ismene offered her sympathy, thinking of all the times her own older brother had tried to ‘protect’ her over their lives. Most of the situations ended with  _ her _ facing down trouble while he cowered behind.

She sent her a grateful look. 

“Ugh I  _ know _ ,” she whined. “He goes on and on about this thief that broke in and took his stupid gold claw which he just leaves sitting on the counter— Oh I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rant like that, I’m just so sick of hearing about it. I’m Camilla and that stubborn fool is Lucan. We run the Riverwood Trader. It’s nice to meet you.” The girl held out a hand and smiled brightly.

“Ismene,” she returned the handshake, “If you don’t mind my asking—I ah, couldn’t help but hear—what is Bleak Falls Barrow? I’ve never—”

“You’ll go? Are you serious?” Camilla interrupted enthusiastically. “Thank you, oh thank you! I’ll go tell Lucan right away!”

She stared, flat footed. 

“Wait, no, I…” she began to protest but it was too late; the girl had already rushed back inside. “…was just curious.” She sighed heavily, grinding the heel of a gloved palm into her forehead. Well at least now she had something to do after talking to the Jarl. 

Similarly grumbling to herself about not getting words in edgewise, she double checked the fastenings of the boiled leather armour she’d been helped to make, and readjusted her new fur-lined cloak. Full of hope that things would start looking up, she made her way out of town, sending a small prayer of thanks to Kynareth for decent weather.

The first thing she noticed as she trotted across the first bridge was the near stifling silence. She might have marked it suspicious—wildlife was abnormally quiet when danger was nearby—but the true reason for it eventually sank in. 

It was the lack of voices by her side that created the peace. 

Her pace slowed to something far more sedate and her eyes glazed over for the umpteenth time. This was the first time in gods knew how long, possibly ever, that she was venturing out completely alone. The thought didn’t frighten so much as it depressed her. She enjoyed nothing more than travelling but now the feeling turned to dust on her tongue and filled her chest with lead.

There must have been some power watching out for her that day, for even in her muted state she managed to avoid trouble for the bulk of her journey. That changed, however, the moment the forested road gave way to the wide open fields the Hold was famed for.

A roar that sounded more like a rockslide than any vocalization echoed across the plain. Immediately she took to higher ground, pulling her longbow off her shoulder. Crouching low behind a mossy rock formation, she took cover. Had the dragon returned for more? Had she taken too long and now Riverwood was forfeit? 

Roughly shoving aside the images of poor Ralof’s family being besieged like those of Helgen, she peered around the large boulder. Her eyes widened in shock as they fell upon what could only be described as a scene. From her vantage point she could make out a trio of people trying to fend off an enraged giant. A  _ giant! _

As far as she could tell the battle was rapidly being pulled from their favour. Two of them were huddled together, one obviously injured, the pain in her body language plain to see even from a distance. The third was certainly giving it his all at attempting to slice off its legs with a massive sword.

Amazed, Ismene sat for a long second just watching him fight. What were they thinking, provoking a giant of all beings? It was a little far from any camp, too… As the battle wore on, it seemed like victory was going to the giant. A sick feeling pooled in her belly; once it felled the big one, it would probably turn on the others, and all three of them…

Now that she’d seen, she couldn’t just sit back and watch the inevitable carnage, but what could she do? She certainly didn’t have the strength to defeat a giant. It would be a long shot, but perhaps she could lend an opening to the swordsman. Putting an arrow to the nock, she drew her bow and, leveling the tip just above the giant’s head, she fired.

Her breath hitched in her throat as the shot drove home. The giant bellowed in anger and clutched the side of its neck. It was distracted just long enough for the swordsman to stab his blade into the back of its calf. With another pain filled wail, it crashed loudly to the ground as the steel clad man freed his weapon. Needing no prompt, he cried out and brought the sword down with a wet thud. The giant did not rise.

Heart hammering rapidly against her ribs, she shot to her feet and sprinted down the slope toward the warriors. As she came upon them she cursed. What was the point? She had no potions or anything else of pertinence to offer them. 

Regardless, she panted, “are you alright? I was watching from up the hill. That was incredible!”

One of the women kneeling on the ground, a fierce looking redhead with dark green war paint smeared across her face, helped her fallen partner to her feet. Assured that the dark haired girl could stand well enough, she addressed her. 

“We’re fine now. Was that you? The one who shot the giant?”

“Ah, yes that was me. Actually I should get that arrow back. I’m, er, a little short on them.” She traipsed cautiously around to where the giant’s head lolled, crouching on one knee by the neck.

She stripped her hands of the gloves she wore and, with practised fingers, set about to freeing the arrowhead from inside the giant’s flesh. Feeling their eyes on her as she tasked, tension and awkwardness crept into her joints. Did they have to watch her so intently? 

“That was one hell of a shot,” the wild looking woman sounded impressed. “And with how…  _ aged _ your bow looks, a little surprising.”

Purposely not looking up from her work, Ismene shrugged. From the angle she’d been at, it was probably more luck than skill, but the band of fighters didn’t need to know that. Her nose wrinkled as she finally dug the projectile free; that was certainly more blood than she was anticipating. She stood, withdrawing a fresh cloth from the pouch at her waist, and did her best to wipe her hands clean. Blood was a scent wolves and sabre cats could easily pick up on and the less of that she had on her the better.

The sole male of the little group, a truly colossal fellow who was kind looking if a bit on the scruffy side, moved suddenly as though he’d been poked. To the trained eye it was clear his mind had been far away. An easy grin lit up his chiseled face. 

“Oh yeah that was some real sharpshootin’. You’ve got eagle eyes haven’t ya?” 

“The bow is my… ah,  _ was? _ my livelihood. I’ve been practising since I was a little girl,” she answered, a prideful flush creeping up her neck. Her skillset wasn’t diverse but what she knew she knew well. She’d been cautioned before that overspecializing was dangerous but so far she’d been fine. 

_ Ah, but what about Helgen? _

That failure with the greatsword could have earned her death… Her jaw tightened and she buried the thought, unwilling for what usually followed to display itself in front of these strangers.

“For once, Farkas, you’re right,” the redhead chuckled. She gave Ismene a shrewd, appraising once-over. “Know what? If you think you’ve got what it takes, consider coming to join us Companions up at Jorrvaskr, in Whiterun. Our Harbinger’s got an eye for people. Tell him Aela sent you. Now,” she gestured to the man, apparently named Farkas, “let’s get this pup home.”

“Good to meet you,” he said brightly, waving a meaty hand before he stooped to let the third of their party lean heavily on him.

Ismene nodded. “Likewise.” 

She wasn’t quite sure what exactly it was the Companions  _ did _ that involved fighting giants but she was heartened by the offer. The part of her that would forever grieve for her recent loss already ached to be a part of something,  _ anything _ that took away the loneliness. And the fact they were headed to the same place she was made it all the more attractive.

Before they had left hearing range she hastily asked, “if it’s Whiterun you’re going back to, mind telling me where I can find Jarl Balgruuf? I have a message to deliver.”

Aela gave her a flat look, turning and pointing to the outline of a city in the distance. 

“He’s at Dragonsreach. It’s literally the biggest building in Whiterun. If you missed it, I’d have to take back what I said,” she drawled. 

A protest borne of having never been inside the city proper bubbled up into her mouth, but she bit it back. It wouldn’t do to argue with potential allies she wasn’t sure she wanted yet. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied with a little more sharpness than was strictly necessary. 

#######

  
Ismene did not meet the wandering Companions again the rest of the way, and she believed that perhaps it was fortunate. She had a task to complete and after that, a ruin to delve into. And after that a job to find, coin to make and, if her stomach had anything else to complain about, food to buy. For the moment, their affairs were settled comfortably on the back burner.

Upon closer inspection, Whiterun wasn’t anything to write home about, if one judged the city by the poor condition of its defensive walls. Back stiffening as she wound her way through the fortified gate, she mulishly ignored the masked stares of the guards that followed her. No matter what town or city she’d ever been to, the constant surveillance of the watch made her uncomfortable and never failed to invoke the feeling that she had done something wrong. It was irrational, she knew, but something unavoidable nonetheless.

As she approached the closed wooden drawbridge, a guard called out to her. 

“Halt, traveller!” he commanded. “State your business.”

Frowning, she stopped in her tracks. She squinted against the glare of the sun up to where two guards stood with their arms crossed. She wondered briefly how they might react to any mention of dragons which, up until that point, had been mere legends. Might they think her mad? 

“I’m here to speak to the Jarl,” she called back, deciding to keep the details of the news to herself, just in case.

“You’re here to speak with the Jarl?” the guard repeated, an undertone of mockery in his voice. “And what’s so important that we need to let you in to see him? Can’t be too careful these days, what with rumours of dragons running rampant.”

A flash of surprise blazed through her, her eyes widening and mouth dropping open. Had she heard that right? She coughed and plucked at the strap tethering her quiver to her hip. Looks like she needn’t have worried about arriving too late. 

“Well, yes. It’s related to that. Riverwood is in need of his aid.”

The two men consorted for a moment and then, “alright then traveller. Welcome to Whiterun. Be on your best behaviour.” While the guard spoke, the drawbridge began to descend with a loud, rusty groan, the thick chains shuddering as it scraped itself into place. 

Ismene pressed both hands against the impressive wooden door and pushed it open. Immediately she was set upon by a barrage of different sights and sounds. The familiar clattering of the smithy to her right and the distant but discernible calling of merchants hawking their wares were ones that stood out from the rest. Above all, she was awed by how  _ complacent _ the atmosphere seemed to be. Even the odd inquisitive look she earned as she wandered through the streets couldn’t detract from it. She took back her first impressions of the city. It had a wholesome, laid back feel.

She made her way past an enormous withered tree and up a twisted flight of stairs overlooking a crystalline reservoir toward a monumental structure. Though built long ago, as she was told, and in a different style than many of the dwellings, it looked meticulously cared for. Dragonsreach, a guard informed her with a stern warning, was a place of business and honour and should be treated as such. 

She had only mumbled “of course” in a rather blasé manner, but as she stepped past the intricately carved double doors his words made much more sense. The grandeur of even the entrance hall alone made her feel small and… insignificant, to be frank. 

Taking a deep breath, she tried not to focus on the volume of her footsteps on the carpeted floor as she approached the main level. Some of the maids and even a few armoured men stopped what they were doing to watch her pass by them. She wished they hadn’t; while she could handily ignore the townspeople who had done so, this observation while indoors made gave her the sensation of being trapped. 

No sooner had her boots cleared the topmost step did an imperious voice ring out over the silent hall, accompanied by the distinct hiss of drawn steel.

“Come no closer,” its owner, an intimidating Dunmer woman, barked. “State your intentions and keep your hands where I can see them.”

Her blood red eyes immobilized Ismene immediately, but she returned the steady gaze with a glower of her own. 

“I’m here to bring word of dragons near Riverwood.”

The elven warrior lowered her blade but did not sheathe it. 

“The Jarl is not accepting audiences today.”

“Now, now Irileth,” a noble voice spoke loudly, “let her approach.”

Saying nothing else as she put her sword away, she moved aside, keeping her mistrustful stare on her. 

Ismene resisted rolling her eyes. Protector of the Jarl or not, she thought the woman to be overreacting. Repressing a sigh, she corrected her posture as she went forward, hoping to put forth a little more dignity than she had so far been allowed. 

Balgruuf, richly dressed and at ease as he reclined in his throne, appeared unconcerned by her presence. He ceased his conversation with the balding man who stood off to the right to observe her. Unused to having the eyes of authority on her, she shifted ever so slightly under his scrutiny. 

“So,” he announced, “You said something about dragons? We have heard bits and pieces of rumours and hearsay, but I assume you gathered this from the guards. Can’t keep much to themselves. You’re  _ sure _ it was a dragon you saw?” 

“Yes, they weren’t exactly subtle, and I don’t believe something like that  _ should _ be kept secret. But it’s true,” she began. Bitterness crept into her tone. “I was at Helgen when it attacked. Got a good view too, from the executioner’s block.”

“You’re very forthright about your criminal past,” Balgruuf grunted, though if he mistrusted her now he didn’t let it show. “Beyond confirming what’s been circulating, is there a reason you needed to bring this to my attention specifically?”

“ _ I am no criminal! _ ” she exploded. Her body went rigid and her icy eyes narrowed dangerously at the assumption. She would make her innocence, and therefore that day’s malfeasances clear, even to the Emperor himself. 

“I was taken to that gods-forsaken place  _ against my will! _ I did not deserve to be assaulted, detained, and marched to my death!” And neither had her friends, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it again. No need to rehash it out loud. She did enough of that after sundown in her nightmares.

Irileth put herself once again between Ismene and the Jarl, hand flying to the hilt of her sword. 

“Keep yourself in check!” she demanded, “do not forget who you speak to!”

She gulped down a heavy breath and tried to relax. Someday she would steel her reactions and perhaps not become so overworked about it all, but today was not that day. She doubted tomorrow would be either. 

“My apologies,” she ground out, willing her fists to uncurl. “It’s a… sensitive subject still. The destruction even one of these beasts can wreak is… immeasurable. I doubt the fires are out even now, which brings me to my point: Riverwood is just down the road and in desperate need of your aid, ah,  _ sir _ .” 

“We need every man we can here in Whiterun,” the balding man piped up. “Logic would have it that larger settlements would be at greater risk.”

“Now, Proventus,” Balgruuf cut in. “We cannot afford to reason with something that, up until the other day, most of us believed not to exist. I will not sit idly by while even a single citizen of my Hold remains unprotected. Irileth.”

“Yes, my Jarl?” 

“See to it that a squad of men is dispatched to Riverwood at once,” he ordered, following Irileth’s departure with a hard, determined stare. He considered Ismene once again. “It was good of them to send you to me. You’ve proven a capable messenger, at the very least, in spite of your…” he paused, “outburst.”

Her eye contact with the Jarl didn’t waver, but she doubted the momentary surge of shame she felt went unnoticed. She could have handled that better, true, but she didn’t regret defending herself.

“Enough people have lost their lives to that monster. If relaying a plea for help is what it takes to stay more deaths then it’s the least I can do,” she replied with a shrug of one shoulder. 

“Perhaps you could put that capability to of some use to me,” Balgruuf said, looking over her armour and weapons. “You seem like the type who can get things done. My court wizard, Farengar, has been petitioning me to send someone off on an  _ errand _ , let’s call it, for his research, but I cannot spare the men and nobody else has taken up his request.” He pointed off to the side of the hall where she could see a series of doorways. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

She couldn’t help but wonder if this was in payment for the guards, or a response to the flare up of her temper. Or perhaps neither. She supposed it didn’t matter. A solicitation from the Jarl was not one to be denied. On the plus side, there was likely to be gold in the result of it.

#####

  
For someone who had allegedly been bothering the Jarl with his inquiries, the wizard was perfectly content to ignore Ismene’s multiple attempts at getting his attention. She stood now, on the other side of his desk with her arms crossed, contemplating sending an arrow into his behind. She didn’t know much about enchanting, but severely doubted it rendered the caster completely deaf. Her eyebrow twitched.

At long last, “oh, I didn’t see you come in,” Farengar said airily as he set a basketful of prismatic stones on the tabletop. “Have you come to Dragonsreach to discuss the ongoing hostilities, like the rest of the so called ‘great warriors’?” He didn’t bother to hide his distaste, and on that she could heartily agree.

“I have other things to worry about for the time being,” she snapped, aggravation seeping into her voice.

“What do you need? I am a very busy man but…” he made no effort to hide that he was surveying her form, leather armour be damned. “I could set aside my work for now.”

She took a healthy step back from the desk, and tightened her crossed arms. Now this was unexpected. She supposed she had taken the presence of two protective (and one literal) guard dog-minded men for granted over the years. They used to deflect comments and unsavoury behaviours, which had effectively driven away men she had actually held interest in as well. 

“The Jarl has acquiesced to your request,” she stated shortly.

Farengar changed tracks almost immediately as though a switch had been flipped in his brain. 

“By the Divines,  _ finally! _ I was beginning to worry that I might have to crawl through that draugr infested ruin myself.” He hesitated, seeing the frown take root on her face. “Don’t give me that look. If the Jarl has asked you then it’s obviously something you can handle. Besides, this tablet which… may or not be there… Oh get back here would you?”

Ismene discontinued her retreat to the main hall and threw a scowl back at the wizard. Unappealing as he was making the job sound, she maintained every intention to finish it. She simply wanted him to get to the point, and dangling her assistance might sweeten the prize when all was said and done.

“I’m listening.”

Beckoning her closer, he unrolled a map on the desktop. 

“What I’m looking for is an artifact called the ‘Dragonstone’,  _ supposedly _ located deep within Bleak Falls Barrow. I believe it is a key tool that will shed some light onto the dragons that have recently resurfaced. I’m sure I’ve piqued your curiosity.” 

“Not especially.” She cast a wary eye on the map. While she didn’t think he was necessarily sending her to her death, anything to do with dragons she wanted no part of. “But as it turns out, I’m already going there so you’re in luck.”

Farengar beamed. 

“Excellent! Alright, off you go. I’ll be waiting for you. The sooner begun, the sooner done, eh?” He waved her away before taking up his gem basket and returning to the enchanting table.

######

  
Bleak Falls Barrow, as it turned out, was a ruin on a far grander scale than Ismene had anticipated, not to mention crawling with bandits. After departing Whiterun, she had stopped in at the Riverwood Trader to obtain additional information about the trinket Camilla and Lucan had been arguing about a few days prior. A golden ornament in the shape of a dragon’s claw, the man insisted, was the source of the store’s good luck and therefore invaluable. Not so much, of course, that he hadn’t promised the gold from his next shipment to her for its safe return.

She cursed to herself as she hid behind a half crumbled stone pillar with her bow ready to fire. Why did everything lately have to come down to dragons? She seemed to be cursed with them, and apparently talking about the civil war was getting old.

The weather had grown steadily worse since the gargantuan stone arch came into view and had not improved in the half hour or so she had spent sneaking around. Thankfully the bandits had yet to notice her, but she could probably shout and not be heard over the howling wind or be seen at this distance through the swirling snow if she remained hidden. She kept her jaw tightly shut lest her teeth rattle themselves out of her skull from shivering with nerves. Her goal was to wait and observe the bandits’ movements in order to identify any possible lulls in activity or a changing of the watch, but she had to get moving lest she freeze in place.

Continuing to stoop low, her eyes roved over the grand staircase. Most of the other columns had become shelters to at least one bandit. From where she could see, Ismene counted four people, all dressed in furs and all armed to the teeth. Her best option, bar squeaking past unseen, was to take them out under cover. She chewed her bottom lip. This was much different than sniping a deer. Bandits would not retreat after taking a non lethal blow, they would sniff her out for the sole purpose of ending her life. 

She shifted her weight delicately as she went on the assault, trying not to disturb the hard packed snow beneath her boots. The less sound she made the better. She prowled around the pillar with her bow drawn, hefting the weapon to line up the arrowhead with the chest of the nearest bandit. From where he was, the next wouldn’t have a direct view right away if he fell… and therefore not of her if she took his cover. She held her breath and let the arrow fly. 

Her heart pummeled its way into her throat when the bandit released a wet choke and fell to the icy ground. His hands gouged and tore feebly at the arrow lodged in his breast until he fell still. Her gorge rose at the sight and she forced herself to dash toward him. She kept her eyes deliberately forward, trying desperately to ignore the corpse. 

Two more bandits she took out this way as she advanced further toward the barrow. She had been wrong in her count; there were six sentries, not four, and the remaining ones were clumped together in some variety of quarrel. Regardless, her luck was at its end as she shot again. One lay dead with an arrow in the back of her head, fellows now on high alert. 

_ Wait, where did they go? How did I lose sight of them that quickly?! _ Frantically, Ismene whipped her head around trying to locate her foes, but it was too late.

“Well ain’t this a surprise? Looks like we got ourselves a hero.”

She hurtled to her feet and retreated as quickly as she could in the opposite direction. Holding her bow out across her body in both hands she blocked the strike from the bandit’s war axe. While a good move to fend off a wildcat bite, it was considerably less effective in battle she soon discovered. The wooden longbow gave way to the force of the blow with a resonant crack as it split in two, the fragments sent skittering to the stones as they followed the caught bowstring. 

“Shit!” Ismene stumbled backward, snarling up into the bandit’s cruel smirk. She had worked decently hard for that bow, and couldn’t afford to replace it! With nearly numb fingers, she tugged her gladius free of its sheath in her right hand, knife held in reverse grip in her left. Struggling to remember some of the techniques she’d seen Ralof use against multiple opponents, she danced out of the way of her attacker’s reach.

“Stand still so I can kill you!” he hollered over the wind, livid with frustration. He let out a battle cry as he chopped downward again, sparks flying when his blade made contact with the paving. 

The second bandit joined the fray, smacking the flat of her sword noisily against her hide shield as she approached. 

“Can’t wait to count out your coin,” she taunted.

“Not much to count,” Ismene mumbled to herself, throwing up the hand holding her dagger to stall another angled slash from the man. She glanced quickly around but there was nothing to the environment that could help her. The other woman was blocking her in, driving her toward her partner in such a way that she was unable to descend the stairs. Going up was not an option either; turning her back meant certain death. 

Playing the evasion game wasn’t tiring either bandit out like she hoped it would. Tactics used on wild animals didn’t seem to work on humans… but she did notice that the man favoured earthbound strikes, and the woman would move in at the apex of his swing in order to push Ismene closer to him. An idea sparked in her mind, but it would require precision timing to pull off, if at all and would be incredibly deadly if she failed. 

Her arms quaked under the weight of his axe; she couldn’t keep deflecting either of them for much longer. 

_ Now! _

As he reared back to attack, she ducked out of the way and rolled backward down the stairs. A gurgling cry from above told her the plan had worked. In changing up the way she dodged, she had allowed the female bandit to advance into the man’s attack as opposed to being a barrier between them. Wasting none of the time she’d been granted, she brought up her weapons and charged back up the stairs.

Ismene was met head on with another predictable onslaught by the axe wielding bandit. It was fortunate her opponent was just as poor a tactician as she was, but he could still outmatch her in raw strength alone. There would be no more outfoxing him, now that the fight was one-on-one.

“Enough is enough,” she grumbled. A weakened parry with her sword gave just enough opening to stab the bandit in the shoulder with the dagger, though she’d been aiming for his heart. 

He actually had the audacity to laugh at her. 

“That’s it?” he chortled menacingly, “That’s all you’ve got?” Grinning wickedly, he wrenched the small blade out of his body and flung it to the ground. 

Reaching back, he threw Ismene off her pattern and sent his fist into her face with a sickening crunch. Pain exploded from the point of contact, staggering her and nearly causing her to drop her sword. He spun his two handed axe in his hands and lifted it once more. 

“Time to end this little game.”

The bandit may have been more powerful, but she was faster, and the stab wound prevented him from raising the axe as high as he had before. As he brought it down for a finishing blow, she launched herself inside his guard, thrusting her blade forward with all her weight behind the strike. The furs he wore allowed for little resistance and the sword cleaved through his ribs right up to the hilt. In return, the handle of his axe landed with bruising strength across her upper back, bringing her crashing down with the now dead bandit. 

The minute she was able, Ismene propelled herself away from the body to roll onto her side, gasping for air as she tried not to vomit. Her entire body shook with disgust. She had  _ felt _ every inch of the blade as it slid into the man’s chest, and in those moments the assured victory had filled her with a brutal pride. She’d relished in putting him down like he’d been some horrid beast and not a man. 

She didn’t like it now. 

Rising to shaky feet, she withdrew her sword and wiped it off on the already bloody fur her defeated opponent wore. Not having the stomach to search the bodies for gold, she climbed slowly up the steps and finally entered the barrow. This errand was already more trouble than it was worth.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. The Nature of Change

The sudden absence of the loud, rushing wind in the stillness of the crypt disoriented Ismene and placed painful pressure on her inner ears. She sank against a rough hewn wall with her eyes screwed shut, tilting her head back on the cool surface. Taking in ragged breaths, she attempted to calm herself against her roiling guts; she couldn’t afford to throw up what little food she had eaten over the past day. The stagnant air certainly didn’t help matters, but eventually she regained control and carried forward.

She hadn’t made it halfway across the dilapidated entry hall when the sound of a hushed but heated argument echoed in the chamber. Pressing her back tightly against a mound of rubble, she strained to listen over her own pulse.

“It’s been two days and we haven’t seen hide nor hair of him. You think he’s dead?” A man wondered.

“…I don’t give a damn about that!” a woman retorted bitingly. “All I care about is getting my cut from this job. If he _does_ come out alive, I’ll kill him myself for making me wait.”

Cursing softly, Ismene tightened her grip on the handle of her sword. More bandits? She wasn’t ready for this, not so soon after the ones outside! Especially not now that she was left only with a weapon she could barely use. Maybe she could avoid them altogether, the room was definitely dark enough to find cover in the multitude of shadows… 

Holding her breath, she crawled forward, edging around the fallen stones until the pair came into sight. They were focused on… whatever it was they were doing and so far remained unaware of her. That was good. 

Having been concentrating too strongly on the bandits, she failed to notice the blackened bones at the base of the pillar. Too late did she realize her mistake; a sharp snap broke the silence as she crushed them underfoot. 

“Did you hear that?”

“Who’s there?!”

“For the love of…” Grinding her teeth as she jumped out of the path of a bandit’s dagger, she decided that investing in some form of combat training would be a good idea. Her luck would run out eventually, she knew, and for all it was worth, this might be it. She swept down her blade in retaliation, slicing across the woman’s shoulder.

“Like the bite of a flea!” the bandit taunted while she recovered as her partner entered the fray. 

Ismene backpedaled sharply to avoid having a blade carve out her belly before stepping back in to ram the pommel of her gladius hard up into the tall man’s jaw. There was a satisfying crack and he staggered, spitting out a glob of blood and what appeared to be a tooth or two. Emboldened, the newly minted adventurer lunged forward to cut her sword across his throat.

Unfortunately, her other opponent didn’t take as long a time to regain her bearings. With a guttural cry, she stabbed her in the left shoulder while her back was turned.

“Damn you!” she hissed, moisture born of pain springing to her eyes. Reeling back, she clutched at the wound and readjusted her hold on her sword. The bandit wasted no opportunity and came at her again, swinging her knife across, trying to hack at her neck. 

Ducking once again under the bandit’s high swing, Ismene rose up and drove her empty fist clumsily into her stomach. She immediately wished she hadn’t; not only did it not force her gasping away like she hoped it would, but the motion sent searing pain lancing up her arm, through her wound, and down her back. 

“That’s it?” the bandit panted, “you’re a disgrace to your own kind!” Grinning darkly, she sped forward, dagger thrust outward. 

Left with no other option in the tighter space they’d migrated to, she grasped her sword in both hands and met the charge head on. Both women clashed, blades sinking in to the other, the bandit’s dagger into Ismene’s uninjured shoulder while at the same time she received a sword upward under her last rib. A wet gasp was too loud in her ear and, as the bandit’s body slumped to the floor, she dropped to her knees.

Shallow, ragged breaths dredged up the queasiness Ismene had beaten back and this time she couldn’t stop herself from heaving up the contents of her stomach onto the stones, where it mixed with the blood running in rivulets down both arms. Staying hunched on all fours as the sickness slowly subsided, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the dizziness that blurred her surroundings. When she was confident she could move without collapsing, she gingerly sat back and fumbled in her bag for a health potion. 

It was quite a while before she was able to resume her travels.

Despite having never set foot inside one of the ancient Nordic structures, she was not at all surprised at the barrow’s state of decay. She crept along, taking great care to avoid tripping over the thick vines that seeped in from deep cracks in the floor and hung from the low ceilings. 

Though she had slunk around numerous twisting corners and past several illuminated alcoves, there was no way of telling how far she’d come, or how long she’d been in there. Just who was keeping these candles and torches lit, she wondered, and how had they not collectively burned up all the breathable air? 

She recalled Farengar’s comment about the tomb; she wasn’t entirely sure what a draugr was, but anything that had the ability to infest something would no doubt be troublesome and numerous. Thankfully the only other living thing she’d encountered apart from the bandits at the entrance were a pack of disease riddled skeevers. Lulled into a false sense of security by this, she was unprepared for the unearthly noise that came echoing down the hallway.

It was unlike anything she had ever heard, simultaneously dry shuffling as it was a moist squelch. Interspersed with the repulsive sound were low, raspy growls that bizarrely resembled speech. Undeniable curiosity gripped her tightly as she wedged herself back around the most recent turn. Ever so slowly, she moved her head to peek around the corner. What she saw made her relieved to be hidden and at the same time regretful to be there in the first place.

It was hideous. A draugr, it had to be. Formerly human, the creature ambled stiffly around the corridor on partially calcified joints. Unnaturally leathery grey skin was stretched drum-tight over severely atrophied muscles, leaving bones showing where the flesh had rotted away completely. An eerie light burned in empty eye sockets above a lipless sneer from which a scraggly, matted beard hung. And it was looking right at her.

Gasping quietly, she flattened herself further, sending whispered prayers under her breath. Had it seen her? _Could_ it? Its gurgling had stopped and she couldn’t hear it walking but that didn’t mean it wasn’t stalking her. She wasn’t skilled enough to pull off stabbing something in the back while remaining undetected and she really, _really_ didn’t want to engage it in close combat. The idea of its clammy hands anywhere near her made her skin crawl. She had no other choice, now that her bow was lying in halves outside. 

“Tighten your bootstraps, Ismene,” she murmured before slipping back around to where the draugr was. She lifted her sword to a ready position and tiptoed as quietly as she could until she was in striking range. She pulled her arm back and thrust forward, stabbing between the creature’s shoulder blades. 

Rather than falling dead as the bandit had, the draugr turned around as she withdrew her gladius, which now dripped with a thick, oily liquid. It garbled something unintelligible and drew its own sword, a gnarled strip of black iron that glinted in the low light. 

“Oh what the fu—” a deep grunt cut off her own curse as she buckled under the unexpected power behind its swing. She clenched her jaw as she met it blow for blow, thinking she might have to find herself a shield. How could she not out maneuver something that was technically dead, for Talos’ sake? Huffing in frustration, she shifted course and made a vertical slash, severing the arm holding the blade.

“Ha! I’ve disarmed you! Now you’re—oh _come on!_ ”

In the seconds she had taken to find her boldness, the draugr had simply picked up the sword in its remaining hand. 

Damning ambidextrous undead to Oblivion where they belonged, she jumped back as it lashed out again. At least now there was a glaring opening, which she took advantage of by gripping her blade in both hands, driving it upward under its jaw and through the back of its head. It keeled over and clattered to the floor, the ghostly light in its orbits dimming then fading completely. 

For good measure, she sliced at its shriveled neck to separate the head from its shoulders.

“That’s disgusting,” she remarked to no one as she flicked her sword a few times to free it of the mostly congealed blood. “No wonder the bandits stayed outside in the cold. Ugh.” 

She winced as she rubbed her increasingly sore wrist with her free hand. If she wasn’t careful, clumsily defending with a weapon was going to end up breaking it. As she hesitantly picked up the draugr’s discarded sword, she resolved to be more proactive with the next one she encountered. Doubtless there would be many.

########

  
Her assumption was entirely correct, she found while progressing through the tomb. While not every body that lay in the numerous slots in the walls rose and attacked, enough of them did for Ismene to start becoming accustomed to the way they fought. The draugr, even when in twos or threes, were focused solely on her and therefore it was simple to lead them into positions where they could inadvertently attack each other. Or, as she discovered in one instance, to trigger traps and take the brunt of the damage. That was, naturally, if she hadn’t activated them first. 

Even if she was beginning to feel more confident in her abilities—the acquisition of her weapon of choice notwithstanding—the injuries she had accumulated were sucking her energy dry. Once or twice she attempted the simple healing spell Leaves-no-Trail had taught her years ago, but her magicka reserves were regrettably small and repairing cuts and bruises left her drained worse than the wounds had. She still had some of the potions Camilla had spirited away for her, but nothing she’d sustained up to that point since the cuts from the bandits was worth using them up. Besides, now that she could attack from afar, she was holding up better.

Eventually the narrow passageways widened into a chamber lit only by cracks in the ceiling. Sticky, gossamer webs obscured every available surface and heaps of egg sacs glistened in each corner. On the far side, near a particularly dense conglomeration of silk, a small frostbite spider scuttled about, unaware of the hunter in its midst. While she wasn’t necessarily afraid of the giant arachnids, she was wary of the poison they could spit, having been rendered bedridden by the substance in the past. 

Thankful that the ancient bow she’d commandeered was markedly supple, Ismene shot two arrows into the spider in rapid succession, ending its life. As she crossed further into the room, the sudden appearance of a voice speaking real, clear words startled her. Quickly ducking out of sight, she inched along the wall as he talked.

“Is… is someone coming? Is that you, Harknir? Bjorn? Soling?” the man called out. “Listen, I… I know I ran ahead with the claw but I need help!”

She glared in the direction of the speaker. So _this_ was the man who had scarpered off with Lucan’s treasure. Following the sounds, she hissed, “where are you? Show yourself!” 

A pocket of thick webs pulsed with movement as the Dunmer entangled in them thrashed about. He stilled when Ismene approached. Only his face and spiked helmet were visible. 

“What? Who are you?” He struggled again. “Oh never mind. Cut me down before that thing gets us!”

She stayed the hand that had reached for the ancient Nordic sword at her hip, eyes narrowing. 

She scoffed, “what, the dead spider in the corner? Sure. Just hand over the claw first.”

The trapped man spared her a withering look. 

“Does it _look_ like I can move? Cut me down and then we’ll talk. You’ll need my help to use it, I know how it works. You wouldn’t believe— _merciful Arkay it’s back_!!” He shrieked, terror illuminating his red eyes. 

Ismene pivoted to face the direction the dark elf had stared off into. 

“What are you—” she choked mid sentence as a gargantuan frostbite spider descended from the roof on a strand of silk that was as thick as a man’s arm. 

Its gnashing mouth parts dripped with opaque green ooze and its glossy black eyes swiveled to find its prey. In retrospect she really should have known the small one wouldn’t be responsible for the mess. She dashed away from the hollering elf to put as much distance as possible between her and the spider, readying her bow as she ran. 

“W-wait! Come back, don’t _leave_ me here!” the man sobbed. “Keep it away from me, _keep it away!_ ” It was pathetic to hear really, but his hysterics were at the very least distracting the huge bug. “Sweet Arkay, h _-help me!_ ” 

Knowing she would only get one shot in before the spider advanced on her, Ismene had to make it count. Crouching behind a web slicked mound of collapsed stones, she fired. The increased, angry clicking of the creature’s mandibles let her know her arrow had been true. Inhaling deeply, she drew again and fired twice more but the projectiles were doing nothing to slow the spider’s rampage. It reared up on its back legs, front limbs waving menacingly. Another arrow embedded itself in its hairy exoskeleton but it didn’t seem to notice.

Gurgling, the spider spat a steaming stream of putrid fluid at her, forcing her to throw herself to the floor. Upon impact, the poisonous mixture began to dissolve whatever it hit with an audible sizzle, including a sizeable patch of armour in the middle of her back. The jarring movement dislodged most of the remaining arrows from her quiver, scattering them amongst the webbing. Blood rushing in her ears, the hunter rolled to her feet trying desperately to ignore the burning of her skin. 

“What are you doing? Why did you let yourself get hit?” the Dunmer moaned. “Kill it! _Kill it!_ ”

“For the love of Talos will you _shut the fuck up?_ You’re the idiot who let himself get caught in the first place!” And yes, she probably could have avoided the spray but she hadn’t and now would have to live with it.

She reached back for another arrow but came up empty handed. Tearing the quiver off, she discovered that the acid had burnt a large hole in the bottom of it. Screaming in rage, she threw it to the ground and all but ripped both swords from their sheathes. 

“Yes good! That’s it! Don’t waste time slinking around with that bow like a milk drinker!”

“Shut! It!” 

The poison seeping through her system was beginning to cloud her sight and set a horrible pounding in her head. Her tongue felt thick as though someone had wedged a rubbery wad of horker fat between her teeth. This had to end quickly before she collapsed. 

Roaring to keep her focus, Ismene attacked, hacking and slashing at every available inch of the spider she could reach. In return, it brought a spiky leg down and clubbed her repeatedly, piercing through the thin parts of her armour along the way.

In the end, she was victorious—the arrows had weakened the spider after all. 

Her breathing was laboured and sweat poured down her face as she stumbled away from the corpse and toward the Dunmer. At least she had saved her potions. Her hands quaked violently as she tried to uncork the red bottle, sloshing some of it over her knuckles and down her chin as she drank greedily. Slowly her heart rate fell to normal and her eyesight stopped darkening at the edges. It wasn’t enough to restore her completely, but a nice rest on that rock over there would do…

Panting, she sagged onto the flat edge of the stone and watched as the empty glass rolled away from her. She really wasn’t cut out for this, and since when did frostbite spiders grow that large? She wished she’d asked Kjell to teach her how to use blades more often. She should have listened when she’d been told to diversify. 

“You did it. You killed it! Now hurry and cut me down before anything else shows up,” he snapped impatiently. When she didn’t respond he sounded panicked again, “…wait, where are you? Get me down from this! Help!”

She ignored his wailing for as long as she could, but once her patience wore thin, she dragged herself upright and marched over, drawing her gladius as she went. She would cut him down alright. It would be a damn shame if some of the residual venom on the edge of her blade just _happened_ to make contact with him, wouldn’t it? 

Sawing at the webbing she glared, “I want the claw that you stole. Got it?”

“Yes, yes I said I’d help you didn’t I? Oh that’s it, I can feel it coming loose, see?” He waggled his fingers for emphasis. “Good that— _oof!_ ” Once the bindings came fully clear, he hit the ground with a grunt.

Grabbing the back straps of his armour, Ismene hauled him roughly to his feet. 

“Alright you’re free. Give up the goods.” She blinked. Was she really shaking down this thief? 

All semblance of fear melted from the Dunmer’s face and a sneer replaced it. 

“You fool,” he said coldly, “did you really think I was going to share the treasure with you? You’re weak _and_ stupid. Try not to let the draugr get you.” He shot her an obscene hand gesture before taking off through the doorway she had cleared.

What treasure? She just wanted the damn claw! And the Dragonstone. But she didn’t care what it _did_. Divines preserve her. 

“GET BACK HERE!” 

Bolting after him, she was doubly glad for the potion’s continued effects and the years she’d spent chasing deer. 

The pursuit led both people at a breakneck pace through the dungeon past several more draugr, which could only grumble confusedly at the passing blurs. Eventually he ran them into a dead end. With a cry, she launched herself, tackling him to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

“Ah! Bitch!” he wheezed as he was pinned face down against the rough stone floor. “Get off of me!”

“Hold… _still_ , damn you!” she grunted from above, grinding a knee into his back. For good measure, she pulled a knife and pressed the cold edge against his neck. She didn’t want to kill him, but the threat had to be believable. “Give me… the claw and you walk.”

“Again with the demanding something from me when _I can’t move my arms_ . Ah! _Ah!_ F-fine! It’s in the pouch at my waist!”

Without moving the blade, she rooted through his belongings, removing any weapons he carried, throwing them as far away as she could despite his protests. She’d leave the money just to be nice; he was the thief, not her. At last she found it, the surprisingly large, shimmering trinket. Tucking it into her own bag, she dragged the elf to stand with her.

“Get going,” she commanded, pushing him. “And don’t come after me or I _will_ kill you this time.” The words felt unnatural in her mouth. She wasn’t a murderer, she wasn’t! “Go!”

“You haven’t seen the last of Arvel the Swift!” He repeated the rude hand sign before dashing back the way they had come. 

Ismene followed behind to make sure he wouldn’t stop and lurk for a moment she turned her back. Having returned to the branching path they had flown through, he chose a different way into the darkness. Several moments later an ear splitting clang echoed around the chamber, punctuated by a high pitched scream.

Grabbing up a nearby torch and holding her sword aloft, she slowly made her way toward the noise. A rusty metal grate with gore covered spikes similar to the one she’d seen near the spider nest had impaled Arvel through several vital points. His body hung from the place it made impact and blood pooled beneath him, running in dark streams where the floor sloped. 

“Arkay receive you,” she murmured, looking away. She had, in fact, seen the last of Arvel the Swift. 

######

  
Ismene found herself proceeding with caution, though a frivolous sense of curiosity had begun trickling in the back of her mind since she’d reclaimed the golden claw. Tricky and annoying though he had been, Arvel had mentioned more than once that it functioned in something. _As_ something? She wished she had coerced that information out of him as well, but hindsight told her that she might have been thoroughly lucky just to lay her hands on the trinket. 

Perplexed, she distractedly wove her way further into the barrow, avoiding every draugr she possibly could. Those she couldn’t met their end at the point of an arrow or a heavy handed chop from a sword. It was sad to say that she was becoming accustomed to the dank environment, as much as she wanted out of it. At least she’d grown bold enough to liberate a small pouch worth of merrily jingling Septims from the undead. That, and several dusty but full bottles of health potions she found wedged between destroyed books and mouldy rolls of linen on half collapsed shelves. 

Maybe this would turn out better than she thought!

Naturally this uplifting notion came to her far too soon in the form of a dead end passageway just beyond the toughest draugr she’d faced so far. She tread softly through the wide corridor, admiring the intricate carvings on the walls. It was easy to marvel at the effort put in by the ancestral Nords to honour their dead… which rose again to attack their descendants. 

Frowning, she stopped short in front of a stone barrier engraved with three rings, each of which bore a stylized symbol of an animal. The very centre, made of a lighter material than the rest, bore three distinct divots. Ismene reached out and traced the features of a howling wolf, feeling a slight draft under her fingers as she did so. Did that make this a door of some kind? Humming, she pressed on the carving below it, a rearing bear. The entire ring responded to her touch, rotating ever so slightly. 

“Oh that’s interesting,” she whispered, playing with the moving parts. She flicked through three different animals on each segment. Was it meant to be a combination somehow, and the correct order would open the door? How was she meant to discern what that was? She hadn’t seen anything resembling these anywhere else in the crypt, though she hadn’t actually been _looking_. There was no way she was going to backtrack. 

What about the centre? Humming, she pointed out the first three fingers on her right hand and inserted the tips in each of the depressions. This part too would move, though she’d probably break her fingers if she tried. Withdrawing her hand, she kept it in the same position, finding amusement in how claw like it looked.

_Wait._

Inspiration flashed through her, prompting her to dig Lucan’s sculpture out of her bag. It was supposed to do something, and she’d bet every coin she owned on this being it. The golden claw wasn’t just a good luck charm, it was a key. 

Excitedly, she rearranged the rings and then slid the claw into place. With a deep groan, the door began to sink into a crevice in the floor. Triumph flooded her veins and she marched over the threshold with a spring in her step. 

The corridor opened up into a wide cave through which a clear, frothing creek ran. Parts of the ceiling had caved in, allowing fresh air—or at least fresher than the rest—to waft over her. It was serene and oddly beautiful. Feeling a little more reverent, Ismene meandered around, across a small bridge and up a short flight of crumbling stairs toward a smooth, curved wall.

As she approached, her heart rate picked up significantly. A whispering, like the rush of the wind, clouded her hearing and the sound of distant drums set her blood aflame with courage. It was the carvings, she swore it. Whatever was etched on this wall was speaking to her, literally.

The closer she got, the louder and more distinct the voices became, but still she couldn’t make out the words. The language they spoke was eerily familiar, like something she once knew but had forgotten. A cluster of the scratch-mark sigils reached out to her; she couldn’t read them and though the far recesses of her mind identified it as ‘ _fus_ ’, it provided no translation.

For a moment, the world went dark. Deep inside the core of her being, something written in every cell, in her very essence slithered to life. In the split second it took for her eyes to work again, Ismene felt strong, felt… _right_. But the instance passed quicker than it had come, leaving her empty and incomplete once more as the cave filtered back into focus. The word echoed in her thoughts, intense frustration slinking in its wake as though she was supposed to know it.

She didn’t have long to mull over what exactly had just happened to her. Behind her, the heavy stone lid of a black sarcophagus exploded off its base, forced aside by the draugr inside heaving itself out.

It drew its weapon, a deadly looking battleaxe, pointed at the startled Nord and garbled a curse she couldn’t understand in its ancient tongue. It shuffled toward her, immediately on the offensive.

Instinct kicked in like a boot to the head and Ismene fled back toward the bridge. This draugr was different than the others, and there would be no success in blocking even a single blow from that axe. It was faster too; she could hear its crusty footfalls as it chased her. She didn’t quite make it to the stonework when it stopped and inhaled sharply.

“… _RO DAH!_ ”

The last thought that crossed her mind before she was sent flying face first into the stream was ‘ _I didn’t know they could breathe_ ’. Hissing against the pain that bloomed over the left side of her head, she scrambled against the slippery rocks to get away. 

She leapt into a somersault, narrowly avoiding a strike that would have killed her had it landed. As it was, the draugr’s axe rent a slice into the surface of her hip. Cold like she had never felt radiated from the wound down her leg and she was quite sure it froze the blood that welled to the surface.

What had pushed her to the ground? Nothing had touched her and yet some invisible force that felt distinctly physical had knocked her down. Wiping the drips of the potion she swilled away from her lips, she drew her bow. 

“That’s not how you sweep a lady off her feet,” she chided, firing an arrow that barely staggered the draugr. Relentlessly it surged forward, swinging its axe with unnatural strength. 

“ _Qiilaan us dilon!_ ” it barked, cleaving the stone where her feet had been a second before.

“Sorry, didn’t _aah_ , catch that!” Wobbling out of the way, Ismene dashed back toward the coffin. She needed a plan that involved more than putting distance between herself and the draugr, but there wasn’t anything to this room. No convenient torches, no exploitable traps. Running away was only dragging out the fight and the further she got, the more likely it was it would use… whatever power it had again. That, and she was quite sure she was only aggravating the damage to her leg further.

Coming up with nothing, she resorted to firing arrow after arrow into the draugr. As long as she stayed out of range of its axe she would be fine. She was down to her last potion though and her quiver was running light; she would not win a battle of attrition. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she released her final arrow. 

Of course, only now that she was devoid of them she found that she had ended up in a place it couldn’t quite get to, a raised area just to the side of the cave entrance. 

Drawing both of the swords she had picked up along the way, she crouched, ready to spring. She watched as the draugr fruitlessly tried to reach her, waiting for the right angle at which she could pounce. She had cornered herself, but a pointed strike would end the battle. It was a move she had only seen done with daggers, but a downward stab couldn’t change. Holding both swords in reverse grip, Ismene jumped forward and brought the points down onto both of its shoulders, plunging the blades through its cracked clavicles and into its chest. 

A burbling noise gushed from its throat as it fell backward taking Ismene, whose grip on the hilts did not break, down with it. She cried out as she tangled with the dead creature, almost being brained by the pommels of her own swords. She did, however, discover that draugr smelled infinitely worse in close quarters. 

“Oh gods, oh _gods_ ,” she spat repeatedly, pushing herself as far away from it as she could get. She’d done so well at keeping her stomach inside her body and she wasn’t about to lose it now, but she came very close. Dry heaves subsiding, she warily searched through its belongings, finding money and… 

“Aha! This must be it! The Dragonstone.” Standing up again, she held the large tablet aloft, angling it toward the light to get a better look. It was engraved with twisting marks that vaguely resembled a map on one side and more of the same glyphs the wall bore. 

Tucking it safely in the same pouch as the golden claw, Ismene drank her final potion.

“Time to get the hell out of here.”

######

  
Upon exiting the tomb, she was treated to the sight of rosy hues in a brilliant sunrise bathing the frost encrusted world in a radiant pastel glow. She released the breath of crisp air she had taken in, watching her own steam curl into the bright sky, illuminated like wispy fire. For a moment she entertained the comparison of it to the breath of a dragon. Snorting to herself as she began the journey back to Riverwood, she dismissed the notion; there was no way she would ever be that destructive.

Her arrival in the sleepy town was joined by the earliest rising residents, of which Alvor was included. She waved a brief greeting to the busy smith as she passed, making a note to stop by later so she could fix her armour. By the time she reached the Riverwood Trader, Camilla was already up and sweeping the porch. The girl gasped loudly, a wide smile overtaking her soft features.

“You’re back!” she cried gleefully. Her face fell upon seeing her bruises. “Oh but you look just _awful_ … Did the bandits do that to you?” 

Ismene gently prodded her cheekbone, wincing as she did. Maybe those old potions weren’t as effective as she thought. 

“No, a draugr got a little handsy that’s all,” she joked dryly. “But he lost his head over it, so don’t worry.”

Camilla squinted, not appreciating the jest. “I’ll make sure Lucan gives you a good deal on healing supplies. I mean…” she resumed sweeping. “You got the claw, right?”

She grinned, “of course I did. It was tough, but I’m here, aren’t I?” The girl didn’t need to know just _how_ tough it was. She wasn’t looking to make herself out to be a hero after all.

“And I’m glad. Maybe my brother was right. If whatever was in there roughed an adventurer like you up that badly I really wouldn’t have stood a chance.” She shook her head and led her inside the small shop. 

“Welcome to the… by the gods, what happened to you?” Lucan’s voice rang out, rapidly switching from jovial to mildly concerned.

“She got the claw back! Look, show it to him won’t you?”

Ismene complied, gently placing the large object onto the counter with a dull thud. 

“You actually did it,” he breathed, picking up his charm and cradling it to his chest. “When Camilla told me she’d found an ‘adventurer’ that was going to do the job I was skeptical but…” He replaced the claw before ducking below the counter to rifle through a strongbox. Standing, he caught up one of her hands and pressed a fat bag of coins into it. “As promised, your payment.”

Her eyes went wide at the hefty weight. 

“There has to be a couple hundred Septims in here, are you sure?” The job had its unexpected difficulties but she couldn’t accept the money if they were hard up for it.

“It’s around five hundred actually,” Lucan said casually, examining his fingernails. “I’m a better businessman than my sister gives me credit for. Besides, I got what I paid for didn’t I? Thanks to you, the Riverwood Trader is back where it should be!”

A blush crept up her neck into her cheeks at the siblings’ praise. It felt good to see them in high spirits. Maybe she could become one of those people who lived to help others. Doing odd jobs like this—as much as crawling through a dungeon filled with undead could be called an ‘odd job’—might turn out a lucrative business as well… 

She stayed a while longer to clean and patch herself up with the supplies she purchased (at a _very_ slight discount) and to share small talk. They really were of a decent stock, she decided, silently promising to patronize their operations whenever she could. By the time she left for the smithy it was already into the early afternoon, and from there into the dinner hour.

Ismene toted her repaired armour under one arm and hauled away a stuffed quiver of shining steel arrows over her good shoulder, intent on finding the inn. Farengar could wait until the next day while she caught her rest, now that she had a little coin to spare for it. It wasn’t as if she was going anywhere else in the meantime.

A hard faced Breton woman was the only person in the centre of the common room when she entered. She looked up from where she stooped to stoke the hearth. 

“Welcome to the Sleeping Giant Inn,” she said, her strong voice carrying clear across the space. “If there’s something you need, speak to either myself or Orgnar there behind the bar.”

“Actually,” Ismene adjusted the bundle in her arms, “I’d like a room until the morning if you can spare it.” 

The older woman eyed the bruises on the younger’s face. 

“It’s ten gold for the night and meals are extra.” She pointed off to an open door in the middle of the opposite wall after dropping Ismene’s money in the pocket of her apron. “It’s all yours.”

“I thought I heard your voice,” a man called out before she had the opportunity to retreat. She searched the room for the individual, finding a familiar Stormcloak sitting on one of the benches tucked behind the support beams. Ralof beckoned to her, sliding over to make space.

Fatigued though she was, she didn’t want to be rude. The man had only held kind words for her, and considered her a friend. She groaned as she took up the offered spot, relieved to take weight off her feet. 

“I’m a little surprised to see you here. Shouldn’t you be out protecting your Jarl?”

Offering her a bottle of ale, Ralof shook his head. 

“Not yet. It’s still only been a few days and I need to make sure General Tullius hasn’t sent any troops to sniff around Riverwood. We’ve got to throw off the trail if I want to keep my family safe,” he explained, watching her drink. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed her. “You’ve seen battle recently. Not going after the Imperials on your own I hope. You won’t win a vendetta like that.”

Ismene tensed under his stare, keeping her own on the label of the bottle she drank from. She’d be lying if she told him she hadn’t thought about it off and on since that day. Fighting bandits, and even that huge spider had put things into perspective for her. She could emerge reasonably victorious from fights like that but trained soldiers? Kjell had been far more skilled than she and look where it got him. 

“Your sister was of a different opinion,” she mumbled. “Said I’d ‘make a fine Stormcloak’ or something similar. I’m not… I’m ill suited for war.” She drained her ale and was quiet for a moment. “Besides I don’t think I could do that to my parents.”

He pushed a second drink toward her despite it being unasked for. If anyone could use its comforts in the moment, it was her. 

“They wouldn’t want you fighting for Skyrim? It’s a noble cause.”

She snorted. “Not to a woman married to a long-time Legionnaire for much of her life. No, they already have one ‘traitor’ child. I’m shocked my brother wasn’t formally disowned when he announced that he was off to don the blue. Now _that_ was a horrible visit.” And the last contact they’d had since the war broke out, not that they regularly kept in touch after she left home. Sighing, she passed a thumb around the lip of the glass, peering at her tablemate from the corner of her eye. “Actually…” 

Ralof’s drink paused halfway to his mouth. “Oh?”

“Could you do something for me? I hate to ask more of you but….”

He turned to face her fully, bringing a hand up to squeeze her uninjured shoulder. He noted she didn’t flinch this time around. 

“Anything, my friend.”

“I know it’s a long shot, but if you meet a man named Svein Haugen, tell him ‘try not to die’ for me would you?” A small smile tugged at her lips. 

Ralof chuckled, the warm sound rolling smoothly from his chest. 

“I’ll do my best. Now how about you tell me just where those wounds came from? I want to hear of your glorious victories.”

Ismene laughed aloud. Equal parts the grace of the man’s company and the alcohol cheered her a little. Finishing the second bottle, she said, “I would hardly call leading a pack of mouldy old draugr on a chase through their own tomb a ‘glorious victory’. I did find out that they are especially susceptible to a number of traps and they make the funniest noise when sent flying.”

“That would be quite a sight to see,” he admitted, smile growing to crinkle his bright eyes. 

“I left some standing up in Bleak Falls Barrow, you should try it sometime.” Her cheeks flushed as the drink’s effects started to settle in. “No but that wasn’t even the best part. There was this bandit caught in a spider nest just _screaming_ his head off… oh, and at the end there was a wall.”

“A wall. In a tomb. Really,” he drawled under a wide grin. It heartened him to see her in an upbeat mood, rather than the morose pit from days earlier. “What a novelty.”

Clicking her tongue, she whacked him lightly on the arm. 

“Hush you cheeky boy,” she scolded. “This one was special. It spoke to me.”

“Oh I see now. A _talking_ wall. Makes _much_ more sense.”

“I’m _serious!_ It was the oddest thing. There were so many voices, and drums. All those carvings but I could only read one of them.” Her nose wrinkled as she struggled to remember what it had said. “Well anyway, it was like… I _absorbed_ the word. It was… oh now I know. It said ‘ _fus_ ’.” She paused as if expecting something to happen, pouting when nothing changed. 

Behind them, a glass shattered. Both Nords turned around to see the innkeeper hurriedly sweeping up the shards muttering things under her breath about ‘hands not being what they used to be’ and the bartender needing to ‘dry off the cups more carefully’. Noticing their attention on her, she waved them off. 

“Don’t mind me.”

Shrugging, Ismene reached for another drink, but Ralof pulled it away and closed his hand around her slim fingers. 

“I think you’ve had quite enough of these, if you’re talking about walls having voices,” he said firmly. He gently tilted her head back by the chin to get a better look at her darkened eye. “You need to sleep. Don’t pout at me like that. To bed with you.”

She wobbled to her feet and reclaimed her belongings. She wasn’t even that drunk! 

“Fine,” she grumbled. Then, softly, “thank you, Ralof. For everything. I mean it.”

He stood as well before planting his hands on both her shoulders to steady her. 

“I might never have made it out alive that day if you hadn’t joined me. I want to see you taking care of yourself, understand? Live your life well, Ismene. Don’t let it pass by chasing ghosts. Write to me if you need help and I’ll do what I can.” 

His eyes held her attention as he spoke and she felt tightness rise into her chest. Unable to reply past the lump in her throat, she merely nodded and gripped his forearms in an unspoken gesture of gratitude. She turned away and walked stiffly toward her room, closing the door behind her once inside. Sinking into the mattress of the small bed, she fell into a fitful sleep.  
  
  



	5. The Nature of Beginnings

The following day rose with a bright sky and gentle breeze. Ismene on the other hand, awoke with a dry mouth and a pulsing headache. That was what she got, she supposed, for drinking while exhausted and without a proper meal. The bread and cheese the Valerius siblings had shared clearly weren’t enough to stave off a hangover. The obscenely loud knocking on the door didn’t help matters either. Rather than answering it, she brought the fur blanket over her head and curled further into herself, refusing to leave the warmth of the bed.

“This is your wakeup call, girl.” The clipped voice of the innkeeper percolated through the worn wood. “Half an hour longer and you’ll pay for another day.”

She strongly considered going back to sleep and forking over the gold when she got up. She hadn’t rested well at all. Her dreams had been fraught with fear and an endless parade of the walking dead, some of which had worn the faces of the ones she’d lost. 

Failing to gather enough saliva to soothe her parched throat, she got up to find the jug of water she left on the night table. She stretched laboriously, joints popping and sore muscles protesting the end of rest. Rolling her shoulder, she inspected her wounds and found them healed. Her kinsmen could say what they liked about magic, but she would never begrudge potions.

Quickly dressing, braiding her hair and reapplying her war paint, she collated her meagre belongings and crossed into the main area. A part of her was disappointed by not finding Ralof waving her over for breakfast. She ruthlessly tamped down the feeling, willing herself not to become attached to someone she barely knew and would likely not see again for some time, if ever. They were both busy adults and it wouldn’t be fair to fit him into a void where he did not belong. 

Besides, the war was unforgiving and she wasn’t going to be hurt by it again if she could help it.

She ate in silence, and over the course of her meal she became strikingly aware of the establishment’s owner watching her closely. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as she tensed. What was so interesting? Was it a lack of traffic to the inn, or was the woman that paranoid of banditry, and expected the worst of her? Whatever the reason, she found it extremely off putting.

“I’m sorry, but was there something you wanted to talk with me about?” She kept her face carefully blank, though her tone was short.

Catching herself, the woman’s expression flickered with something unidentifiable before it settled on embarrassment. 

“No, no,” she said hurriedly. “It’s not every day we see interesting travellers come through. Don’t mind me.”

Ismene’s stare lingered a moment longer before both of them went back to what they were doing. The woman was just nosy, she decided. On top of that, she hadn’t even introduced herself as proprietors were wont to do. Eager to be away from her examination, she polished off her food and stowed away a little extra for the road, muttered a thanks that went ignored and rushed out the door. 

The innkeeper’s eyes narrowed onto the place the girl had been sitting. She would need to keep a close ear out for news of that one.

#####

  
Farengar was focused and tasking away when Ismene crossed into his workspace, once again oblivious to her presence. Rather than waste time trying to interrupt, she slid the Dragonstone across the table and over the top of the documents he pored over. The wizard’s head jerked up, looking genuinely irate.

“What’s the meaning of this? You had better hope that didn’t smudge my ink! That is an important missive to the Arch-Mage of Winterhold!” he snapped. Blinking, recognition replaced his anger. “Oh. It’s you. Back from Bleak Falls Barrow, and in one piece! Seems you really are a cut above the usual brutes the Jarl sends my way.” He rubbed his hands together before covetously picking up the tablet.

“Yes, I got you your…  _ thing _ ,” she said, watching him trace the carvings with appreciative hands. It better actually be important and not just a piece for the odd man’s collection. Clearing her throat, she felt like he already forgot she was there. “So… what’s next?”

Distractedly, he considered her again. 

“Hm? That is where your job ends and mine begins.” He shook his head and smirked. “The work of the mind, sadly undervalued in Skyrim.” Without another word, he turned and started walking away, Dragonstone in hand.

“Now hold on a second,” she rapped her knuckles on the desk. “That wasn’t easy to get!” She wasn’t about to let him weasel his way out of paying her.

He waved her away. 

“Yes, yes you can… talk to the Jarl, his steward or somebody else for your reward. Run along, I have work to do.”

“This was  _ your _ —” she sighed after him. “Oh never mind.” She would rather deal with the single-minded mage than have to talk to the Jarl again, weird though he was. She was understandably nervous about having to speak to Balgruuf any more than she had, once was enough. She wanted to exist under the radar and did not fancy having her name or face remembered by  _ any _ of them.

Still, anonymity did not put food on the table she didn’t own.

Keeping an eye on Irileth, who watched her sharply right back, Ismene approached Balgruuf. He beckoned to her and spoke before she could open her mouth.

“I see you’ve completed Farengar’s request. Well done. Proventus here will give you your due payment,” he said, sitting upright. He leaned forward slightly, “I have to ask: what are your plans after this?”

“I…” she cursed inwardly at her stammer, “am uncertain. I have an idea but…” Not a total lie, but if asked to elaborate she couldn’t. It was difficult to refrain from shrugging or wringing her hands. She hated being put on the spot even for something simple.

“If it’s doable for you, stick around Whiterun. We may have use for you yet. Proventus.”

“Yes, my Jarl?”

“Take the girl upstairs and give her the item I set aside.” He cast a small smile on her. “You have potential. Don’t let it go to waste.”

Her mind reeled as she followed the steward away from the throne and up to the second level of the fortress. It wasn’t anything substantial, but more a promise of work than she’d anticipated. That said, she had an inkling that it would all be incredibly dangerous, if crawling through a crypt was anything to go by.

“Ah, Proventus was it? I have a question,” she spoke up as she admired the unusually cold dagger she’d been awarded. 

“Ask away.”

“What can you tell me… What is it that the Companions do?”

Proventus paused beside the map table. 

“Well,” he began, looking unsure how to proceed. “They follow the legacy of the Companions of old, fighting with honour under the guidance of their Harbinger, Kodlak Whitemane. The Jarl expedites quite a few of the more dangerous tasks to them, and some would say… There is an opinion… that they are nothing but sellswords nowadays. But!” He held up a finger in warning, “you didn’t hear it from me. They are a good group of people.”

Honour was all well and good, but ‘sellswords’ meant money and a livelihood. Something to fill her idle hands with which she could rebuild her life. She bobbed her head in acknowledgement, chewing her lip in contemplation. 

“That’s actually more helpful than I thought, thank you.”

Proventus gave her a pointed look. “Considering joining them?”

“I am.”

#####

  
Up close, the hull-roofed mead hall was almost as daunting as Dragonsreach. Against the backdrop of the dusky sky and lit from below by torch lined stairs it certainly looked a place of legend. This building, and the people inside it, had the unknown ability to make or break her immediate future. Ismene had to hold onto her belief that she had something to offer. Taking a deep breath, she ascended the steps.

Nobody noticed her enter, for they were all engrossed in watching a very one sided fistfight between a short angry woman and a tall, slender Dark Elf. Cheering and raucous laughter from the assembly egged the fighters on until a swift uppercut leveled him. So  _ this _ was what the Companions were, a glorified fight club. Proventus’ assessment wasn’t entirely inaccurate after all.

Ismene wasn’t too handy with a blade just yet but she’d spent enough time wrestling with rowdy boys over her life that she could at least hold her own. The fighters dispersed, some of them exchanging bet winnings, leaving a frail old woman behind to titter about messes. Politely, she approached her.

“Excuse me?” 

The woman carried on with her business. 

“I’m here to speak with the Harbinger, can you tell me where to find him?” 

Still the elder bustled around, picking up scattered tableware as she went. 

She frowned. What was with people in this city and their obstinate focus? 

“Ma’am?”

The woman finally looked up as she was about to pick Ismene’s boot laces. 

“Oh! I’m sorry dear, were you talking to me? You’ll have to speak up. Quiet doesn’t do well here.”

“So I see,” she said wryly. “I need to find Kodlak.”

“Downstairs at the every end of the hall. Best of luck to you, child.”

Silently grateful for the well-wishing, Ismene turned on her heel and followed the woman’s directions. Her stomach flipped, equal parts giddy with anticipation and shaken with nerves. She wasn’t even fully sure what she was about to sign on for, but her bridges had been burned by someone else and there was nowhere to go but forward.

The living quarters beneath Jorrvaskr were closed off and it shrouded the corridor in a stifling silence. Where the rowdy Companions had all gone off to she didn’t know, but seeing even one face would have alleviated her stress just a little. Reaching the last set of doors, she discovered one to be open. Voices wafted out of it and into the hall.

“…the call is becoming too strong,” a deep and decidedly male one was heard saying. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.”

A second man, much older than the first given his timbre, replied gently but with an undercurrent of strength, “have faith in yourself. We must resist if we want the results we desire so. Let us put this talk aside for the moment, we have a guest.” 

Ismene gave a start. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop and she thought she’d been quiet enough not to disturb them. Wondering how the man had known she was there, she saw no point in delaying any further. Clearing her throat, she stepped into the room, maintaining a confident front even if sweat slicked her palms.

Sitting across from each other were two men dressed in nearly identical plate mail bearing a snarling wolf on the chest. As she had guessed, one was indeed old, white haired with a face bearing deep lines of age though it didn’t detract from the brightness of his eyes. 

The second, much younger and roguishly handsome, scowled openly at her. His black hair and war paint accentuated the expression, adding a level of fierceness that toed the line of savagery. Really, she wasn’t deserving of such a look; she had been perfectly content to wait until the Harbinger was ready to see her. Ignoring him for now, she addressed the eldest of the three of them.

“You’re Kodlak Whitemane, yes?” The words came out more bluntly than she had intended but there they were. 

“That I am,” he replied cordially, nodding slowly to her in greeting. “What brings you to us today..?”

Realizing he was asking for an introduction, she squared her shoulders. 

“My name is Ismene and I… would like to join your ranks.”

The dark haired man snorted derisively. 

“You? Surely you jest. We don’t need someone…” his steel coloured irises raked over her, disdain evident on his face. “Someone who looks like they just crawled out of the bush.”

Now that was offensive. She’d bathed very recently and hadn’t even been in the deep woods in a week. Or more perhaps. Her expression hardened and she turned away to face Kodlak. It was  _ his _ opinion that mattered after all. 

“Calm yourself, Vilkas,” he chastised. “There are always open beds in Jorrvaskr for those with fire in their hearts. Now, come closer girl and let’s have a look at you.”

This must have been what that red headed woman, whose name she unfortunately forgot, had been talking about. The advisor who could read people with astonishing accuracy. She complied and stepped a few inches closer to the table. 

Leaning back in his seat, the Harbinger smiled.

“Yes, there is a certain… wildness to your spirit. Tell me, how well do you fare in battle?”

Images of the fights she’d been a part of over the past few days flashed through her mind. Nobody would ever say she was particularly talented at swordplay, but she was proud of her proficiency with a bow. 

“I like to think… there is always more to learn.” Ismene flicked a brief glare onto Vilkas, catching his mutter of ‘ _ here we go _ ’. 

Kodlak let out a bark of laughter, “There is a certain wisdom in that way of thinking. Very well. I think my shield-brother here can take you out to the yard to test your arm.” 

Both of the younger Nords protested at once. Ismene, who found it unfair to assign a man who already disliked her to assess her skills. Vilkas, who was opposed to her entirely.

"I'm sorry,  _ what? _ "

He spoke much louder. 

“Master you can’t seriously be considering accepting this… this…  _ stray _ into our hall!” His hand balled into a fist on the tabletop and he gestured angrily with the other. “Look at her! She’s obviously not a warrior, and I wouldn’t say she’s even fit to fetch Torvar mead!”

She had no idea who that person was, but the disgust with which he spat his words made them all the more insulting. Her temper flared to aggressive levels. 

“Alright,” she snarled, glaring darkly at him, “I’m going out to the yard, and  _ you _ better get your ass up so I can kick it!” 

Not waiting for a reply, she whirled around and marched out the door.

#######

  
If only to get this over with and have the troublesome woman humiliated back out of Jorrvaskr, Vilkas gathered his sword and shield and made his way to the training yard. She was just another insolent brat that was too big for her britches. He’d knock her down a peg or seven, maybe rough her up enough to demonstrate the true strength of the Companions and make sure she never came back. Besides, he could do without the instant aggravation she brought with her. He had enough to deal with.

Upon emerging outside, he found her standing impatiently, pointedly facing away from the small crowd that had gathered—his brother among them. This was perfect. An audience would just add salt to her inevitable wounds. He descended the steps, grinding his teeth at the irritated look in her clear blue eyes.

“What kept you?” she demanded.

“Believe me, I want this done more than you do,” he growled. “Shut up and draw your sword. Don’t worry, I can take whatever you can dish out.” He smirked inwardly seeing her fury intensify. If she allowed herself to be so easily provoked, it was only a testament to her weakness.

There was no hesitation in the unsheathing of her weathered gladius, but she kept her distance as they began to circle each other, cold stare never leaving him. By the way she moved, sure steps with her long legs, he was vaguely reminded of a prowling sabre cat. She was watching, waiting and learning. All well and good if she was using the decrepit bow on her back, but this was a test designed for her to strike first. 

Annoyance mounting, he snapped, “I haven’t got all night! Move or get out!”

Baring her teeth, she flashed forward, bringing her sword down in an overhead swing with too much power behind it. 

He lazily blocked her well advertised moves with his shield as she struck again and again. He parried with a horizontal slash of his own, which she deflected with better timing than her attacks.

“Do you even know what kind of weapon you’re holding?” he taunted. “You’re  _ fighting _ , not chopping wood. What are you, some kind of farmer’s daughter whose papa has convinced her she’s strong?” His smug grin widened at the smattering of laughter his comment elicited from his shield-siblings. “What’s the matter, I thought you were going to ‘kick my ass’?”

She was. 

By Talos she was going to give that arrogant bastard something to laugh about alright. The ease with which he defended against her made it glaringly obvious that there was no way she could outmatch him in a straight fight. 

Nobody said she had to play fair.

Without giving him the satisfaction of the innumerable angry retorts that jammed her mind, Ismene copied a feint she’d once seen down in the catacombs of Helgen. It forced him to angle his shield to the side to catch the blade, then with the swiftness of a striking snake, she aimed a punch with her left hand.

It was a move he had clearly not been expecting from her, and it surprised them both when her knuckles collided with his face. Gods was he ever hard headed, it felt like she’d just broken all her fingers! 

She stared in absolute shock when he let his equipment fall to the ground and his hands flew up to cradle his nose, glare deepening over them. A small trickle of blood dripped down his chin from underneath.

A peal of masculine laughter echoed over the small courtyard and both fighters turned to see Farkas doubled over where he sat. His large fist beat against the table and tears rolled down his face as he laughed himself sick at the offended look on Vilkas’s face. The others appeared to be restraining their own mirth, but a balding, scarred man who sat cross legged against a support beam grinned widely. 

“Oh,” was all Ismene could say through her disbelief. “Ah, oops?” 

She didn’t want to gloat but a bubble of pride couldn’t be denied nor could she prevent the peeking of her teeth as her lips inched upward. She withdrew a cloth from her pouch and moved to hand it to Vilkas, but he backed away from her sharply.

“Get away. Don’t touch me!” he roared, pinching his nostrils closed with one bloody hand. He gazed intently at her fists, making sure they were clean. Satisfied the coast was clear, he jabbed a finger at his fallen sword. “Pick that up and take it to Eorlund to have it sharpened,  _ stray _ . You… can stay, I  _ suppose… _ but you’re just a whelp to us, so  _ never _ forget your place. Be careful with that blade. It’s worth more than you are.”

Anger resurfaced, clawing away the last of her good will. 

“ _ Excuse me? _ I didn’t come here to run errands for some high-and-mighty—” Sighing deeply, she ran a hand through her loose hair. Whatever. She was in, wasn’t she? She made a show of gathering up the sword as if it were any other tool. “Alright, alright,  _ fine _ . If it’ll stop your bitching. Consider it… a favour, for almost breaking your nose.”

Seething, Vilkas didn’t wait to watch her walk away with his sword. He all but stomped up the steps, flying past Farkas whose wide strides easily caught up with him. He was  _ livid _ and it was straining his already thin control over the wolf inside. The occasional quiet giggle his older brother let out frayed his nerves further. 

Just what in Oblivion was it with that woman that already got under his skin like a thorn? Other than the embarrassment he’d just received of course. There was nothing,  _ nothing _ different or special about her. That was probably it. He was absolutely galled that Kodlak approved of her so quickly and at himself for relenting, bloodied face or not.

Finally he could take it no more; he’d been followed all the way back to his room. 

“Farkas will you  _ stop _ that,” he snapped, slamming the door behind them. “It’s not funny in the least!” He snatched up a damp rag hanging from a washbasin in the corner and pressed it to his mouth and chin. 

His amusement didn’t fade. 

“Come on, it’s a little funny. Not every day we get to see you get socked good by some wild girl. I mean there’s Aela, and Njada certainly tries…” he chuckled, sitting in Vilkas’s chair and putting his feet up on the desk. “Lighten up a little. I think she’ll be a lot of fun.”

He rounded on his giant of a brother. 

“Fun?” his voice went quiet, cold. “How  _ fun _ would it be when a stranger off the street comes into contact with my blood? How  _ hilarious _ will it be to accidentally spread this…  _ disease _ to some woman who knows nothing about it. About us?”

The smile melted off his face. 

“I didn’t think about that,” he admitted. “You mean the whelps never made you bleed before? Not even on a job?”

He let out a long suffering sigh. 

“Of course they have. A scratch here and there with the tip of a blade isn’t…” he held the saturated cloth out for emphasis, “like this. And Kodlak just… accepted her. Right away.”

“I don’t believe it. Are you jealous? You  _ are! _ ”

“No!” he thundered. “Don’t be foolish! There’s nothing special about her and I will damn well prove it. Mark my words she’ll be running home with her tail between her legs within the month.”

#####

  
Ismene’s encounter with the legendary smith of the Skyforge left her wondering if everyone associated with the Companions was completely taciturn. Eorlund had berated her thoroughly for letting herself be coerced into being an errand-girl only to immediately send her off with somebody’s shield. Was this really the brand of honour they were pushing? It didn’t matter, as much as it rankled her. She was here to work, not to make friends. Or enemies, as it were.

She met the shield’s owner, Aela, at the long table bordering the fire pit inside. She was sitting and chatting with the one eyed man who had watched her test. She had to wonder if Kodlak’s fairness toward her had been the redhead’s doing. 

“Your shield,” she said tersely, “courtesy of Eorlund.”

“Hardly think it’s with any courtesy,” scar-face grunted over his tankard.

Aela rolled her eyes. 

“Talked you into favours, has he? Well, at least it’s not dented anymore. Actually, I’m a little surprised to see you here. You didn’t seem all that keen about us after the giant,” she said smoothly. “But I’m glad to see you’ve reconsidered. We’ll make a fighter of you yet.” She elbowed the man at her side. “This is Skjor by the way, and I heard you made quite an impression on Vilkas.”

Ismene snickered. “Yeah and it’s shaped like my fist. What? He had it coming.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, new-blood,” Skjor warned through his food. “You got extremely lucky, and you can expect your training to be doubly difficult now.”

Wait. That evil-eyed prick was supposed to be a teacher?  _ Her _ teacher? So much for avoiding him like the plague. 

“Of course it is,” she sighed. 

“You made your own bed there,” Aela shrugged. “Speaking of beds, no one’s shown you around yet, have they?” She whistled loudly, “ _ FARKAS! _ ”

The large warrior sitting across the room lifted his head from the greatsword he was polishing. He carefully shifted it aside on his bench before striding over to them. 

“Yeah?”

She jerked her head in Ismene’s direction. “Take the whelp and give her the grand tour. Get her in working order.”

“Oh, uh, yeah sure.” He enthusiastically clapped a hand on her shoulder with a force that buckled her knees. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the others.”

He led her down to the living quarters and through the first door into a long room that had an open divider down the middle. Along the walls were several small beds, each with a chest at the foot. She recognized some of the people milling about, such as the surly looking woman and the dark elf who had been boxing earlier. 

“This is what we call the ‘whelp room’,” Farkas explained. “After a long day of training or a job or somethin’ just pick a bed and crash in it.” He scratched at his stubble, humming. “Maybe check to see if someone’s sleepin’ in it first. Don’t wanna embarrass yourself, heh. Been there.” He pointed at each person in turn as he went on, “Those two ladies are Njada and Ria, and the guys are Athis and Torvar. Good folks, I’m sure you’ll fit in. I for one hope we get to keep you.”

She was a little surprised by the sentiment, but supposed he was just an agreeable person and appreciated it nevertheless. 

“Thanks,” she said quietly. 

He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. You gave us all a good laugh today. I’m sure they’ll be talking about how some newbie got in a good punch on my brother for weeks!”

Now that was interesting. She supposed it was obvious, having seen the two men, that they were related. In fact the resemblance was so blatant Ismene couldn’t figure out how she hadn’t noticed it before. How could two people who looked so nearly identical be so utterly different? She might be new but she hoped Vilkas hadn’t already intimidated the others into making things difficult for her. Indifference she could handle. Deliberate obstacles, well… she’d cross that bridge if it presented itself.

She ended up picking a bed in the far left corner of the room, not overly concerned with the empty chest, there wasn’t much to put away. She was, however, a bit irritated by the glower Njada was giving her. 

“Something you need?”

“You don’t belong here,” she said icily. “I saw you out in the yard. What a shameful display, and a waste of time besides.”

Having had enough of poor attitudes for the day, Ismene sniped back as she tucked her boots under the bed. 

“Oh, why don’t you tell me how you  _ really _ feel. Be honest, I can take it. I’m a big girl.”

Just as she started to rise from her seat, Ria stepped in. 

“Can’t you save this for training? Honestly Njada she  _ just _ got here. Not everyone has the same skill set.”

_ "You _ would know,” she muttered. “When’s the last time you actually did something challenging?” She lay down and turned her back to them. “Whatever. Keep it down.”

Ria sighed and shrugged, taking to her own bed. 

“I was the newest member until you came along, so I can show you the ropes if you want,” she offered. “It’s kind of exciting not being the bottom rung anymore. See, I wanted to join the Companions since I was a little girl.” Her tone became wistful. “I grew up on stories about how valiant and honourable they were and I decided I wanted to be like that. It’ll be great. If we stick together, you’ll see.”

Frowning as she listened, Ismene settled herself on her back. So far she had yet to notice those fabled heroic traits in any of them. Well, except maybe Kodlak, who certainly seemed like he knew what he was doing. First impressions were clearly low on the list of their talents.

Before sleep took her, she prayed for patience and for a dreamless slumber. The last thing she wanted right now was for any of them to find her grieving in the night.

######

  
Ismene woke to an empty barrack, and a deserted main hall, which she was fine with to be perfectly honest. She wasn’t particularly keen on matching wits that morning. Her patience hadn’t been restored over the course of yet another restless sleep.

Tossing an apple core into the hearth, she heard the sounds of shouting and clashing blades filter through the back door. Her brows creased as she followed the noise outside where she found nearly everyone embroiled in sparring or similar. 

“Look who finally decided to join us,” Skjor’s rough voice echoed above the din. He was once again leaning under the awning, observing the training. “Get your full forty winks there, new-blood?”

“I wasn’t…. When did this start?” she gestured toward the yard.

“Every day at dawn, and you’re only what, two maybe three hours late?” Naturally Vilkas would stick his two Septims in. 

She stared fixedly ahead. “I didn’t ask  _ you _ .”

Uncaring, he picked up a blunted training sword and jabbed her in the shoulder with the tip. He shook his head as she fumbled to accept it. 

“You have a lot to catch up on, stray.”

Huffing in irritation and embarrassment, she strode quickly away from him and stopped on the last step. Nobody had told her when to be up or that there  _ was _ a training schedule. She had a feeling it was informal but Daedra take her if she wasn’t going to learn from this. She faltered briefly. Was she supposed to jump in, or wait until one of the spars was called?

“Don’t stand there gaping like an idiot,” he ground out. “Hold that blade properly and get over here before I change my mind.”

“Oh what a tragedy  _ that _ would be.” 

Honestly, she would rather take her chances with Torvar, whose erratic swipes were forcing Athis to sidestep lest he have his head be caved in. Or trade places with Ria even if Njada had beaten her to the ground. Why couldn’t Skjor teach her, gruff and unforgiving as he seemed to be? Vilkas was probably doing this just to spite her, she figured.

“Are you paying attention? Good. Assume your opening stance and come at me,” he commanded.

She raised the sword and spread her feet. Shifting her weight onto her front foot, she pushed off of the other, drawing her arm back as she went. She angled her torso forward to follow through in a vertical slash, which he tangled with the crossguard of his own weapon. Faster than she could blink, he twisted his hands and wrenched the sword out of hers, sending it clanging to the dirt. As she started to reach for it, Ismene felt the cold point of the blade against her collar.

All of this happened in under twenty seconds.

“Dead. You are pathetically slow, and I can tell what you’re going to do before you do it,” he berated harshly, lowering his sword. “Tighten your movements and try again.”

Over and over Ismene rushed at Vilkas and without fail he would easily disarm her or shove her to the ground without remorse. Each time he found some flaw in her body language, the way she held her weapon, or even where she was looking. No matter how many adjustments she made, she would be handily and roughly beaten back. Frustration boiled in her veins at her own incompetence and the unnecessarily rude comments she received. How was she supposed to learn from someone who couldn’t stop belittling her?

  
  


  
  



	6. The Nature of Memories

_ The breeze was cool on her skin as she lay in the grass, eyes blissfully closed while the leaves above danced to its song. Birds chirped to each other, darting among the branches without a care in the world. She often imagined herself to be like them, free to make her own way in the world under the endless sky with possibilities just as limitless. It was a happy thing, this life. _

_ A warm form pressed into her side and familiar, welcome weight settled comfortably across her belly. She lazily dragged a hand through her dog's fur, feeling herself start drifting off into sleep, but was disturbed by a shadow passing above her before it returned and remained. A foot nudged her leg. _

_ “Hey,” a voice called out to her, was it Kjell? “You gotta get up. Can’t sleep here now.” _

_ Her eyes squeezed tighter in defiance, unwilling to emerge from their drowsy fog. She ignored him, even though she knew he'd pull some dumb stunt to get her on her feet--if it was another bucket of water Bowin's teeth would be full of his ankle. _

_ “I mean it, wake up.” _

“Wake up!”

The brightness of the afternoon sun came back with jarring abruptness as Ismene squinted sluggishly up into the emotionless mask of a Whiterun Hold guard. She propped herself up onto her elbows, careful not to disturb the dog that wasn’t there. Yet another dream that, though simple, felt so cruelly real.

“You can’t sleep here,” the guard repeated. “The benches under the Gildergreen are for people to appreciate the goddess's tree, not for vagrants or beggars.”

“I’m neither,” she croaked, rubbing her brow. “I was… at peace, for a second. Is that a crime?”

“No lollygagging.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard it all before. Thanks.” She rolled her eyes at the guard’s retreating back, not noticing that a small body had joined her on the bench when she sat up fully. She gave a start when she turned her head and found the girl, who looked about eight years old, peering at her with curiosity. “Oh.”

“That’s really weird,” she said, swinging her legs as they dangled from the seat. “They never bug me when I take a nap here. How come I've never seen you before? Are you visiting? I'm Lucia. What's your name?"

"Ismene." She suppressed a yawn and settled further into the depths of the bench and leaned against the backrest, staring up at the withered buds speckling the branches again for a second. "I just moved here," she pointed at Jorrvaskr, "that's where I work."

"Oh! My friend Braith keeps bragging that she will someday, too. Between me and you, I don't think so."

"Well they don't let children in," she chuckled. "But when she grows up, who knows."

Lucia shook her head so vigorously that her hair bobbed around her face. 

"No that's not it. She really likes picking on my other friend, Lars Battle-Born. Those guys are heroes, and bullies don't get to be like that."

Ismene couldn't stop the full blown sarcastic laugh that welled up in her throat. There were many words she'd use to describe her new compatriots, but 'hero' wasn't among them. 'Bully,' however, might be. She didn't dare voice her opinion and ruin the girl's rose-tinted views. Children ought to have their idols, after all.

"What's so funny?" Her little face scrunched in confusion. "They're always nice to me even if they're scary. Mister Farkas saved me once when I climbed too high in a tree, and Miss Aela gets me lunch a lot. Oh, and Mister Vilkas is helping me learn to read!"

"Wait, what?" She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "What about your mother--" The second the word was out of her mouth, the girl's face crumpled and she stared at her feet with watery eyes.  _ Gods alive, no wonder the guards look the other way. _ "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, you didn't know. I don't wanna talk about it." She sniffed and not so discreetly rubbed the corners of her eyes with the heel of her palm.

Swallowing tightly, she reached out and tentatively patted her on the back. 

"Let it out, now. It's alright to cry. Sadness won't go away if you keep it locked up."

"I wish I could see her," Lucia's small voice warbled dangerously.

"It's hard, I know," Ismene soothed. She felt like a hypocrite--she had no business consoling anyone, least of all an orphaned child, and truthfully, it was the last thing she believed herself able to do, but she wasn't so cruel as to walk away.

"That mean old priest won't let me!" She suddenly sounded angry. 

Blinking, she realized Lucia had meant the Hall of the Dead--not simply speaking in terms of how much she missed her parents. That didn't make sense. It was especially cold hearted to bar someone so young from the only comfort she could find in her time of need, even if that were simply an urn. She could escort her, but was it inappropriate to intrude on a strange child's grief like that? Divines knew how she felt that way about her own.  _ The least I can do is offer. _

"What if I take you?"

Immediately, Lucia seized Ismene's sleeve. 

"You mean it? Really? Stay right there, just for a second!" Beaming, she hopped off the bench and dashed down the stairs they faced into the market. Barely ten minutes later she returned, carrying a straw basket stuffed with an assortment of flowers she'd evidently just picked. Whose garden did they come from? "Okay, let's go!"

There were a multitude of differences between the Whiterun Hall of the Dead and that of Solitude, but the same oppressive air of depression hung over the entryway. Even though there was a fire blazing merrily in the multitude of braziers standing around the foyer, an inescapable chill ran through her. A lone man in priest's garb sat on one of the many empty pews, hands clasped together as he stared fixedly at a shrine to Arkay.

"Andurs!" Lucia called out, shattering the silence. Ismene was glad she had. "Let me see Mama!"

"Lucia, my dear, I've told you so many times the catacombs are too dangerous for a child." The spindly man rose from his pew, a somber expression on his face.

She planted her fists on her hips. "I'm not alone!"

"Oh, my apologies, I didn't see you there. Come into the light, dear." He clasped one of her arms with a bony hand in greeting. "It warms my heart to know the number of people rising to help this poor lost soul grows each day. My name is Andurs, I am the one responsible for the maintenance of this Hall. I'm afraid however that the matter isn't one of a small person getting lost as it is… the venerable bones walk again."

"Ismene," she returned an introduction for the second time that morning, finding herself unable to meet the old man's deep stare, forced instead to look off to the side of his head. "Did you say  _ walking bones?  _ How is that possible?"

"I--I am unsure," he began slowly, clearly toying with how much he could say in front of the little girl. "At the start I suspected necromancy but haven't found proof. Though it shames me to admit, I haven't-- _ ahem _ \--found the nerve to venture too far in, and I've misplaced the amulet of my station…"

"We can get it!" Lucia clutched her basket as if she was preparing to swing it like a hammer. "Mama will protect us, and Miss Ismene is a Companion!"

"Now hold on, kid--"

"Excellent! Truly you possess a heart of great virtue. I will reward you of course," Andurs smiled. 

"I--we… we'll be right back."

_ Pigeonholed again. Time to live up to my title I suppose. _

Clutching her gladius in one fist and Lucia's free hand with the other, Ismene descended into the catacombs which looked more like a well tended version of Bleak Falls Barrow than a mausoleum. If there were draugr down there… A tug on her arm tore her gaze away from the wall of glittering memorial tags.

"Over here," Lucia whispered. She led the way down a corridor to the right while keeping herself as glued to her side as possible. She gasped quietly when they rounded the corner and came face to face with a literal skeleton, standing upright and articulated by the same blue light that burned in its eye sockets.

"Stay behind me," she commanded, letting go of her as she advanced. The skeleton reached out as if to scratch her, but clattered to the floor the second she severed its head. 

"That was scary, Andurs was right." Her fingers clasped Ismene's once again, tighter than before.

She only hoped those bones hadn't belonged to Lucia's mother. 

Her concerns were assuaged when, after defeating two more of the skeletal undead, they came to a stop before a tiny alcove that was the perfect fit for a single clay urn. A cluster of shrivelled wildflowers drooped over the lip of the shelf, quickly replaced by the hasty bouquet the departed woman's daughter brought with her. The moment she began to fix the flowers, Ismene retreated to a nearby altar upon which an amulet of Arkay rested. Assuming it belonged to Andurs, she pocketed it.

"It's alright," Lucia beckoned her to return. Even in the quiet, her voice was hard to make out. "Come meet Mama."

Queasiness roiled in her stomach and her palms prickled with nervous sweat. She wasn't comfortable with that, and wanted to leave as soon as possible. Now that the battles were over with, the reality of the setting had fully sunk in. 

She was never going to recover her boys' bodies. They'd never get a proper burial, would never have a place of rest; their bones were left for the vultures and the bleaching sun. Her feet betrayed her and walked forward anyway, and the spark in her heart of something other than rue or self-pity demanded that she be there for the girl who was in nearly the same situation.  _ Ease her loneliness for now, dwell on your own later.  _

"Mama, I want you to meet my friend Ismene," she declared, smiling as she handed her a red and blue mountain flower to place beside the others. "She's really brave and fought some skeletons so you would be safe."

With shaking fingers, she slid the stems of the flowers between the urn and the wall. It was difficult to feel ceremony for someone she'd never met, but tightness formed in her chest and eyes all the same.

"Um," she cleared her throat, "hello… ma'am. Your daughter has a big heart and the courage that goes with it. She… she's in good hands. The people of Whiterun are doing what they can to make sure she's looked after."

"She's friends with the Companions, so you can trust her. I do. I'm sorry I haven't come in a long time, but I will more often, I promise!" Lucia stood and brushed off her woolen dress. Standing on her tiptoes, she pressed a kiss to the belly of the urn. "I love you, Mama. Please don't worry too much, I'll be okay." 

Taking her hand yet again, Lucia hummed merrily as they emerged from the catacombs into the sunlight together. She turned and waved to her as she ran off with three other children into the Wind District and out of sight.

The cool breeze slowly dried the tears on Ismene's cheeks, like the gentle touch of a loved one.

  
  


######

“Alright whelp, time to start earning your keep.”

Another morning’s training had come to a close and she certainly noticed it. Her body protested her every movement and felt as heavy as a solid hunk of iron slag while her mind burned with exhaustion. She knew she was deliberately being run into the ground and after a fortnight of it her frustration had reached its peak. She needed to get out of this place, even if just to run through the fields, but she had a nagging fear that if she did they wouldn’t let her back in.

By all rights she should cut her losses and leave but she knew she couldn’t surrender or give up her pride, not after she’d come in bold as brass. She would endure and no amount of humiliation was going to deter her. 

Dragging herself out of the chair she had crumpled into, she took the folded notes Skjor held out to her. Opening it, she hastily scanned the words. It appeared to be a letter from a woman living near Rorikstead, pleading for help with some creature that was steadily decimating her cattle. 

“What’s this then?”

“It’s a job,” he deadpanned. “ _ Your _ job to be exact, one you’re going to complete before any more cows die. I figured something like this was up your alley, given how Aela described your archery.”

“What kind of animal is this?” She picked through the letter again. The sender was notably scant with specifics, but the startling detail with which she described her prize longhorn being eviscerated by something ‘hideously shaggy’ with a ‘disturbing stench’ and ‘knives for claws’ made her guess a bear, perhaps a sabre cat.

“Your guess is as good as mine; all the same it’s just an extermination, so take Ria along. Neither of you is ready for anything bigger, so I’m sending Farkas to make sure nobody dies. There’s a lot of work to do and we can’t spend our whole lives in training,” he explained. 

“I’ve only been here two weeks, what did you expect?”

He leveled a flinty look onto her. “A little more, given how Kodlak seemed to take a shine to you. Then again  _ I’m _ the one with bad eyesight. Just get it done.”

########

“Oh it’s been  _ ages _ since I’ve been to Rorikstead. There’s an old man there that bakes the softest bread, I think it’s because their wheat is so plump. Is that a good way to describe it? Have you tried it?” Ria chattered on as she walked side by side with Ismene as they wound their way down the hill away from Whiterun. 

Even at first light the youngest Companion was filled to the brim with enthusiasm and energy, like a puppy kept inside to wait out the rain. It was almost as if she felt the need to blurt all the words she didn’t speak while sleeping. To his credit, Farkas was respectfully quiet, preferring to keep a steady eye out for trouble.

“I can’t remember.” She too was eager to get the job done and collect her coin, but the further away from the city they went, the more at ease she felt. 

“Oh.” The peace of silence settled in but didn’t last long. “So have you heard what they say? That their produce is so good because of…” her voice dropped to a near whisper, “ _ Daedra worship?” _

“I’m not sure there’s a Daedric Prince of fresh bread.”

“Oh ha,  _ ha _ . I’m serious! It’s a little suspicious, don’t you think?”

“Not really. It’s just good land, probably,” Farkas added.

“Boring.”

“Truth often is.” 

Ismene stretched as she walked, suppressing a groan at the popping of her joints. She had missed the open road much more than she realized and so found herself fending off disappointment that she would leave it again in a few days. Would have to return to that wooden cage gilded in legend which she chose to house herself in, which stubbornness prevented her from walking out of.

As they passed the Honningbrew Meadery, the relaxed expression she wore faded into a frown and her chest pinched painfully as if someone had tied her ribs together with barbed wire. It felt like yesterday that she was there with her boys at Harvest time for the once-a-year cider they made. It was Leaves’ favourite, and they always made a point of going there the second the leaves started turning, pun always intended alongside Kjell’s giggling. She could practically hear his contented, musical hum and see the slow, easy smile that blossomed over his scaly face as he let the spicy drink warm him inside out.

The wires cinched tighter and dug their spikes into her heart, and the only heat inside her was bleeding anger and sorrow.

Now she was glad for Ria’s prattling. It never let her mistake either of them for someone else. The fleeting ache their meeting brought didn’t fulfil her solitude at all, rather their presence embittered her. A sigh rattled in her lungs and she let it turn into a cough.

“You know, I like Whiterun and all but it’s a little bland, geographically. Sometimes I look out at the mountains and wonder what it’s like up there.” Ria was at it again.

“Cold,” she stopped for a moment, pointed toward the horizon where the sunrise was broken by a snow capped ridge and let the memory out. “There’s an inn up near Dawnstar and it’s probably the most welcome sight I’ve ever seen, especially in that frozen wasteland. The pond in behind has a layer of ice on top a foot thick.  _ That _ cold.” She’d once duck-waddled out to the middle of it to retrieve Bowin; the bruises from falling multiple times had taken weeks to heal.

Ria shuddered. “I love Skyrim but that’s too much for me. Better to stay in the south, that’s where the best game is.”

“That may be, but there’s too much competition.”

“Oh, so you’re a hunter then? And obviously you’ve traveled…” she paused and grinned. “So they’re right, you really  _ are _ kind of a stray dog.”

A hard scowl wrote itself across her face. 

“I  _ have _ a home, I just prefer the wilderness.” 

“Where are you from then?”

“I grew up in Solitude.”

“So you were born a city girl but decided to roam through the bush? And now you’re fighting with us? How’d that happen?”

Clamming up completely, she shook her head and kept her eyes on the path, trying to ignore the building tension behind them. 

“You don’t  _ seem _ like the type that enjoys fighting,” she pressed on, oblivious. “Actually you’re kind of like Aela now that I think about it. I don’t know you very well but you keep to yourself like she does. Is that a hunter thing, wanting to work solo?”

_ No it’s not! _ she wanted to yell.  _ There’s nobody left for me! _ Ria’s questions were starting to pick at the shallow façade she’d built up and if she didn’t stop, it would peel away and expose how raw she really was. 

“I’m not interested, alright?” Ismene snapped, tone harsher than she intended but too late to hold back. “Nobody else seems to be either, suits me just fine. I needed the job and I got it, end of story.”

“Keep focusing up there you two.” Farkas’s gruff statement put an abrupt halt to the tirade she felt seeping from the roots of her teeth that she ought to have stopped herself. 

Ria’s smile stuttered and she altered her pace to put more distance between them. She said nothing else until they reached their destination.

######

Though a very well known settlement for multiple reasons, Rorikstead was abnormally quiet. As the last bastion of civilization for Whiterun Hold in the west, it held a good sized population of guards. At that time of year bountiful crops were reaching their full potential, with only a few short weeks until it was time for their harvest. Though there was an air of relaxation only the cushion of surplus could provide, the way hoes and shovels deviated from their careful rhythm as the trio passed their holders was a reminder of the mistrust the war had built between simple folk and anyone openly armed. They returned to work quickly enough, but the feel of eyes on them lingered.

“We’re lookin’ for a place with a couple tens of head of cattle,” Farkas had stopped them to reassess their standing and ensure they were all ready. He handed off his instructions to Ismene who noted they were different than what Skjor had given her—written larger and in simpler words.

“So we should start asking after a woman named Marie Hafgard,” she went on. Handing the missive back to the big man, she broke off on her own and headed toward the inn. Whoever owned it was almost duty bound to know everyone in the sleepy town and would be most apt to share, even if she had no coin with which to bribe them if necessary.

“Hey where are you going?” she heard Ria call after her and then two pairs of feet jogged nearer. “We’re supposed to be doing this together. Remember? We’re teammates.”

“Then put your heads together,” she forged on briskly up the steps. “When you’re new to town, find an inn.”

“Tell us where you’re off to next time.” Farkas sounded disappointed. 

She bit back a sigh at that, figuring she shouldn’t add to the reasons they might want to kick her out, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel like a part of them.  _ They’re just a layover until I figure out what to do next. _

As they filed inside, a young man newly into adulthood likely a few years younger than Ria stood nearly shouting across the bar from a much older man—presumably his father by the way they spoke to each other. He sounded more pleading than angry and the scene reminded her of that day with Camilla and Lucan and so she was grateful that Farkas approached them first, not wanting to get roped into another family’s drama. 

“Good day to ya,” he said, an easy smile on his face, “hate to interrupt but I was wonderin’ if you could let us know how far we’d go to find a farm of one Mrs. Hafgard.”

“Depends on who’s askin’.” The older man gave him a once over, irritation from the row with his boy still fresh. “Been a bit of trouble out that way lately, last thing the old lady needs is more.”

“We’re with the Companions; she hired us to get rid of whatever that is.”

At the drop of the guild’s name, the boy’s eyes grew wide and took on a shine and he looked at Farkas like he was the second coming of Talos. Poorly restrained excitement poured off of him as he peered back and forth at the two men.

“I wanna go with you!” he exclaimed before his father had the chance to reply. “I’ve been training so hard and Da won’t—”

“Erik that’s enough!” he thundered. “Get the furs off the floor and take them to the fence, give ‘em a good beating if you want to hit something so bad.”

Erik deflated immediately and withdrew into himself, clearly humiliated in front of one of his heroes. Ismene felt sorry for the lad, knowing exactly how it felt for a parent to try crushing one’s dreams, though she’d snuck out anyway.  _ Look where  _ that  _ got me. _

“Yes, Da.” He slunk away, clumsily picking up the hide rugs and dragging them outside.

“Sorry you folks had to see that,” he ran a palm over his pate. “My son harbours these dreams of being a warrior, but all he’s ever fought are weeds in the garden out back. He was a sickly child you see, and I’m forever worried he’ll… well. Hafgard’s farm’s called 'Craghorn' and it’s a ten minute walk to the south from here. I hope you can put whatever’s going on there to rest before it puts  _ her _ there.”

#####

Craghorn Farm was noticeable from a fair distance away, not by sight but by smell. An astonishing number of cows plodded aimlessly inside a paddock that encompassed almost the entirety of the field outside of town. A small, squat house with a large porch faced a secondary building almost twice its size at the nearest edge of the fencing, directly on the side of the road.

“That’s… a lot of cattle,” Farkas gave a low whistle. “Makes ya wonder how she even knew any were missing.”

“I guarantee she counts them every morning,” Ismene replied. “That, and the pulped corpses she’s found are probably a good enough clue.”

“Saves her havin’ to slaughter one or two.”

Being the first to ascend to the front door, she lifted a hand and rapped sharply on the brass nameplate in the shape of a bull’s head. Quiet shuffling and the distinct hiss of a drawn blade were heard before it cracked open. Barely visible through the gap was a wide eye that narrowed suddenly.

“Who are you?” a lilting, shaky voice rang out. “What do you want?”

“Are you Marie Hafgard?” Ismene didn’t try opening the door more, and refrained from wedging the toe of her boot in the space, figuring doing so would earn her a knife in the gut.

“What do you want?” 

“You hired us,” she stepped aside so Farkas and Ria were visible. Both waved. “We’re here to drive off your bear problem.”

“It’s no bear my dear.” The door opened fully, revealing a thin elderly Breton woman who came up to her shoulder, stooped by age. Her green eyes were still alert and her knotted hands clutched a shining dagger with practised ease. She sheathed it fluidly. “Come in, come in young warriors. Let me tell you the fate of my poor herd.” She ushered them in one by one and when they were inside, she drew a heavy bolt across the frame. “Please make yourselves comfortable.”

“A sabre cat then?” Ismene remained on her feet, while Farkas seated himself on the bench as Ria settled in beside him. 

Marie bustled about the house, pulling jars and other assorted foodstuffs from various cupboards, muttering to herself as she went. She withdrew a long handled ladle from a vase above the hearth and struck it on the side of the pot hanging above the fire. It broke with a sharp crack, and she carelessly tossed the pieces into the flames. 

The trio of comrades exchanged a look, waiting awkwardly for her answer.

“Oh surely not,” she said at last, a new spoon in hand which she also hit the kettle with. Seemingly satisfied that it remained intact, she dunked it in to taste her cooking. “I don’t know what it is, I’ve never laid eyes on the beast. All I can say is that it is vicious beyond measure.”

“But you were so certain in your letter—” Ismene pinched her brow. “You mentioned its hair, and smell.”

“Oh yes, it had horrible leavings. Fur caught in the fence that stunk something awful. Blood everywhere.” She pulled a twisted root and a fistful of pungent mushrooms from painted jars. All of the fungi went into the mixture, but she chopped the roots with deftness and accuracy before squeezing juice from the pieces with the flat of the knife against the wide pad of her thumb. The brew nearly bubbled over until she vigorously stirred it to a simmer. “Might I interest you in some beef stew? It’s my special recipe.”

“Thanks anyway,” her nose wrinkled against the strange smell but Farkas eagerly accepted. She watched him eat the steaming food with gusto, nary a complaint or odd side effect. “Around what time do you suspect it shows up?”

Clicking her tongue, Marie shot her a disapproving glance. 

“All work and no play with you, is it? You’re a guest in my home, dear. Please try acting like it. Now sit, sit! You’ve come a long way and there’s a bit of a peakiness about you.”

No amount of rib-sticking meals could put the bounce back in her step. She complied anyway, taking the empty bench across the table from Ria, swallowing down her comments. Seconds later a wedge of cheese and a full, steaming loaf of bread were set in front of her, followed by two apples and a hunk of dry meat. Her mouth watered and her stomach protested its emptiness; it was only because Marie continued to stare pointedly at her that she picked at the food. 

The old woman slid onto the bench beside her, passing out well used silverware and a dish of greens. For someone who had expertly held a weapon and kept her home bolted up tight, she was surprisingly accepting of three strangers into it. She smiled brightly and patted Farkas on the arm as they chatted about nothing, going on to compare Ria to her beautiful daughter, expressing pride at how wonderful she was for following her dreams.

Ismene let her eyes wander the house, noting a suit of mail and a shield with crossed swords on the wall that were lovingly polished. They were too large to fit such a small woman even in her prime. A collection of straw dolls sat on a shelf near the weapons, and two delicate chains bearing flat metal tags hung from nails in the wood. 

_ She’s lonely, _ she realized, and the thought hit her like a punch to the belly. Those things must have belonged to a family that was no longer there. Her attention drifted back to Marie who had lit up completely and become so engaging as she was fussing over the length of Farkas’s hair.  _ Like he’s her own son. _

She picked up the bread knife and cut the loaf in four pieces and handed them out before biting off a large chunk of the jerky.

#####

“It’s a fine night, isn’t it?”

She looked out the corner of her eye over her shoulder to find Marie settling into the remaining chair on the porch, a mug in hand which she set on the small table between them and pushed it toward her. It was full of clear liquid—water, most likely. She took it and sipped. Unable to sleep before her watch, she had left the house to get some fresh air and distance herself from the apparent ghosts of their hostess’s life.

“The moon is bright, should make seeing your weird beast easy,” she said quietly. 

“Truth be told I hope it doesn’t show up at all,” she tittered, waving a hand. “It would be nice if some other hunter took its ugly hide by now.”

“Are you sure? It was quite a pretty penny you dished out to have us all here.”

“I’m old, dear. If I worried about every coin that left my purse I’d be in the grave that much faster.” Marie sighed lightly, as much contentment as there was weariness in the sound. “I won’t complain, your friends make wonderful company.”

A frown crossed Ismene’s lips and she stared out into the dark, motionless field. 

“We aren’t friends. We’re just here on the same job.”

“Oh no? Miss Ria certainly wasn’t shy to tell me how excited she was to have you join.”

“She was the bottom rung on the ladder before I came along, of  _ course _ she’s happy.” Her frown morphed into a scowl to stop the threat of angrier words at some of the other Companions’ expenses. “I don’t need to get close to them.” 

As far as she could tell, the sentiment was mutual.

“Sounds more like ‘it’s too soon’ to me.”

“It’s not.”  _ It is. _ "Don’t concern yourself, it’s fine.”  _ It’s not. I miss them so much it hurts. _

“I  _ concern _ myself because I don’t like seeing people make the same mistakes I made.” Heaviness crept into Marie’s tone, even though she was smiling. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She reached out and covered one of Ismene’s hands with her own. 

“I don't expect you to pour your heart out to anyone, least of all some crone you just met, but I can see it in your eyes. They’re the same ones that are in my own looking glass.” 

Her other hand disappeared into the pocket of her apron and withdrew jewelry she recognized as the chains hanging from the shelf. They were simple, flat beaten steel engraved on one side with a name, and on the other a standing stone sign.  _ The Steed _ for someone named Jaromir, and  _ The Warrior _ for a Gilsnar; tags for lost bodies. She’d seen a small moonstone plate for Ingemar with  _ The Lady _ on the obverse in her mother’s jewelry box when she was younger.

“Do you know why I keep all these cattle despite my age?”

Words wouldn’t come to her, so Ismene shook her head.

“Most of those animals are descended from the original herd my darling husband and I bought fifty years ago when we were newly wed. My, we were so young then.” A light mist fogged over her eyes as she spoke though her smile grew while she became lost in the memories. “Little Gilsnar, when he was old enough, decided a bull was a good substitute to learn horseback riding. Oh Jaromir was so angry…” she paused to dab at her cheeks. “He grew into such a fine young man, we were so proud of him and his sister both.”

“It sounds like you built a wonderful life together.” 

“We did. I yearn every moment for days gone by, curse the rockjoint and battles which took them from me, and wish my Hilda would bring my granddaughter to visit before she is a woman grown.”

Her stomach sank in sympathy for the old woman, a situation made all the worse knowing how quiet the house would be without their voices. How could she have been so rude?

“Listen to this old fool, mired in my own thoughts,” she gave a brittle chuckle and her grip on her hand tightened a little. “I have wasted the rest of the life I had mourning the past. Isolated myself from friends, and turned away from a man who would have loved me all in the belief that they were betrayals to a memory. By Mara’s wide heart do not be like me.”

“I…” Ismene choked on the sounds clogged in her windpipe. It hadn’t been twenty years that she’d lost her boys, the comparison didn’t fit. “I won’t leave them behind! I can’t do it!”

“Nobody's ever truly gone. Making new connections doesn’t devalue what came before. Take every second you need to heal but don’t restrict happiness for your future.” Marie stood and patted her on the crown of her head, double checking the memorial trinkets had safely made their way back into her pocket. “Going through life without caring or being cared for is bleaker than you could possibly imagine. May happiness sole your shoes, and if you see the monster that’s tearing up what we built, send it to Oblivion where it belongs.”

  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. The Nature of Healing

The first two night shifts came and went without issue and Ismene was admittedly disappointed with the turnout. Moreover, none of them had been shown any evidence of the cow-killing beast beyond the clump of hair, so had they actually been hired to soothe an old woman’s parched soul for a few days? It was too soon to truly suspect that to be the case, but if she were honest, she didn't really mind. The cool, starry skies she sat under perched on the highest point of the property were calming and allowed her time to sort out her thoughts.

The conversations she had with Marie weighed heavily on her mind, almost to the point of distraction on her first overnight watch. She’d gone through stages of frustration and disbelief over the idea that she could just slide into a new life filled with  _ other _ people, strangers that seemed to feel that she was an outsider. She’d allowed Ralof, and even Gerdur near in what was without question her darkest hour, so what made this different? Had she truly hardened her heart so quickly? 

Anger, she realized, time and distance from the event. Her emotions had burned hotly but now had cooled and been allowed to fester into something much worse.

She wanted someone around who knew her. Someone who held all the right words. Someone like her grandfather, but he was gone too, and had been for over half a decade. Her gaze flicked from the quiet pasture to gloss over the moons and she dared herself to make eye contact with them as if trying to stare down a god.

“Who else are you going to take from me?” she whispered. “I want them back, damn it all. I wish… I wish you’d taken me instead.” Moonlight glinted off the steel arrowhead she held at the ready and she caught her reflection ever so briefly. Just as well. She didn’t particularly want to find out what Marie had meant.

Somewhere beside her, footsteps crunched over the dry tundra grass and Ismene quietly slid off the pile of rocks she was sitting on. Half pulling on her bowstring, she sidled a few inches toward the edge and peered around it. Scowling, she let the bow relax but kept the arrow pinched to the nock. That was no beast, it was Farkas.

“You’re early,” she observed softly, mounting the fieldstones again.

“Got kinda antsy, figured I’d get some air before I woke the house up.” He waved casually and sat down beside her without invitation. He scratched the back of his head, the sound loud in the silence. “Moons are bright tonight.”

“Yeah.” She’d been enjoying the peace.  _ Should I try talking to him, follow Marie’s advice? Ugh, what should I say? _ “Nice visibility. Likely means our prey can see us too.”

“That’s a good point,” he hummed. “No trace yet though?”

“Nothing.”

“Good. Means we can have a little chat.”

Ismene looked at him, confused. The tone he used was serious, almost grave. “About what? Decide to report to Kodlak so he can kick me out?” She winced.  _ Dial it back. _

“Is that what you want? By the way you been acting, some of us’re starting to think so. I dunno where you came from or what you did, but he believes in you, and that’s good enough for me,” he frowned as he spoke. “I get it. It’s been hard to fit in, and nobody’s makin’ it easy, ‘cept Ria, but you haven’t really reached back, know what I mean?”

“Spare me the lecture, would you? I don’t need someone to protect me from bullies on the playground, I can take care of myself.”

“’M not lecturing you, not my place. I want you to do well.”

“Why?” she looked at him fully, reluctantly tearing her attention from the field. Did he expect her to suddenly change her opinion and behave like they were old friends? “You don’t know anything about me, any of you.”

“Whose fault is that? Look, it’s important that we can work together, it’s dangerous otherwise.”

“We have the same target; all I care about is getting the job done. Then we can go about our business.” This was going south, quickly, but she still couldn’t entertain the fallacy of interest. 

“Being a Companion isn’t just some ‘job’.” He sounded hurt. “It’s about brotherhood, we’re a  _ family _ . I gotta know that when we’re out here you got my back, 'cause me and Ria got yours, no matter what. And if you aren’t in it for us too, maybe—maybe you  _ should _ just go.”

Stunned into speechlessness, Ismene could do nothing but gape at him. Someone had had her back for years. She’d returned the favour every time except the one that counted. She drew her knees up to her chest and concentrated on the metal toes of her boots.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” she whispered, and the words began to flow, but she was mercifully able to hold back tears. “I couldn’t… You shouldn’t count on me like that.” Her breath hitched. “People die.”

“What happened?” Hastily, he added, “if you don’t wanna say that’s fine too.”

She  _ didn’t _ want to tell him, and yet, “my hunting partners were murdered and I couldn’t save them.”

“Oh. That’s… oh.” He said something else under his breath she couldn’t make out and nudged her, the movement making her start. “I don’t really got the words to make it better, nobody does, probably. You’re still here, though. Ever think that means something?”

“What, like the powers that be want to hurt me in the worst way?” She snorted derisively. “We were together for so long we may as well have been family. They were the thing I loved most in the world, hell, they  _ were _ my world. What can I do without that?”

“Keep livin’. Get strong.” Farkas caught and held her gaze, understanding in his countenance. “I reckon they probably want ya to be happy. It’ll be awhile 'til your heart heals, but you’ll have a home with us when you’re ready.”

She thought of Marie and the herd of animals she didn’t want. The armour so meticulously maintained even though it would never be used. The dolls with both their eyes and perfect seams. The Imperial army had left her with no such mementos, and maybe that was a good thing. 

_ “Mara’s wide heart, don’t be like me.” _

“What if I’m never ready? What if this doesn’t get better?” Her voice was fragile and unrecognizable to herself.

“It will. Sometimes bad things happen, and all you can do is learn to leave it in the past.” He picked at the knee of his trousers where the fabric peeked between the plates of his armour. “Geez, what’s that line Kodlak told us when Jergen never came back? I’m gonna screw this up, but here goes: grief’s like getting stuck in heavy rain. It weighs you down like wet clothes but you don’t get any drier by stopping.”

“You’re still drenched even if you run though.”

“Yeah, but you’ll get to a fire faster.” He sighed and gave her a quick pat on the head. “Yeah, pretty sure I mangled it. Sorry.”

“It’s fine, I got the point. So I’m in the rain but all I do is stumble blindly and don’t know how to get out.”

Farkas smiled slightly and tapped his chest.

“You got a lantern. All you gotta do is light it. Even if the wick’s damp, all it takes is one spark.” 

“Did you come up with that nugget of wisdom?”

His cheeks coloured and he rubbed his neck.

“Nah. I’m rememberin’ more of that analgesic.”

“You mean analogy?”

He groaned. “Ah man, not again. I hate having to hit the books. Hittin’ dummies is more fun.”

“Can’t argue there.” She plucked her bowstring with a fingernail like it were a lute. “I need to apologize to Ria, don’t I?”

“Yeah. I think you really hurt her feelings.”

“I don’t understand why, we’re barely acquainted.”

“ _ You _ might see it that way. She’s still young and uh, what’s the word… impr—imprescriptible? No, impressionable! She wants to be your friend.”

Putting it differently, she was letting her pain hurt others. In the morning, next she saw her, Ismene would fix something she hoped wasn’t broken beyond repair, and in doing so start mending herself. She couldn’t waste the life she’d been spared—for one reason or another.

#######

“Come on, missy, lift with your legs!” Marie crowed to Ria, whose face was beet red with effort as she tried to move a bale of hay over to the feeding area. “Flipping it like that’s not getting anywhere, and you’re too young to have your back thrown out.”

She sagged against the bale, blowing errant locks out of her sweaty face. 

“I’m not a farmer or a big strong Nord,” she whined.

“When I was your age I could carry one on each shoulder from one end of the paddock to the other! Made all the men jealous, I did.”

“Lemme get that.” Farkas wandered over and grabbed a tie in each hand then effortlessly hauled it into his arms. “Maybe you should go see if Ismene’s having any luck with herding.”

“Why, so she can yell at me again?”

His eyes flicked to the opposite end of the field where only her bright hair could be seen over the side of the chestnut horse she was brushing. He slung the hay onto his broad shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Go talk to her, I think you’ll see it’s different.”

“If you say so.” Reluctantly, she made her way to the single stall, keeping close to the fence. When she drew near, the soft sound of the bristles against the horse’s flank stuttered briefly, but otherwise there was no reaction out of her. A giant black and white dog came sniffing around her feet, looking up to her expectantly. She gave it an obliging pat.

Finally, Ismene stepped around the sturdy animal and gave Ria a weak smile. She seemed a bit guilty, but with her, quietness was deceiving.

“This is Sleipnir,” she ran a hand over the horse’s white blaze. “Marie wants to get him back into the fields.” She paused awkwardly, as if going through what to say in her head. “Can you ride?”

“Yes. Don’t you know how?”

“I do.” Another hesitation. “Look,” she sighed, fiddling with one of her braids, “Ria… I shouldn’t—it wasn’t fair, the way I treated you yesterday.”

“I know that. Why were you being so rude to me? We’re on the same side.”

“Let’s not get into that. It’s personal, but it’s no excuse. I lashed out and I’m sorry.”

“I can forgive you, as long as it doesn’t happen again.” She accepted the loop of Sleipnir’s reins. “Njada’s awful enough for all of us.”

“I noticed,” Ismene said dryly, moving aside so she could get into the saddle. “And Farkas’s asshole brother, too. I definitely don’t want to join that club.” 

“Well, he can be pretty scary, yeah, but it’s easy to stay on his good side.” She blinked. “Oh, I guess you’re doomed.”

“Story of my life it seems,” she rolled her eyes in humour, smiling lightly when Ria laughed. “I’m going to take mister Bjorn here and head over to the opposite side of the field. Hopefully we can get the stragglers back into line.”

“To limit the space we have to watch? If the cows are together, the monster has to come closer to us.”

“Exactly. Let’s go, Bow—ah,  _ boy! _ ” She whistled sharply, three shrill notes in rapid succession and Bjorn the dog followed closely by her side as she jogged off toward the far northern edge of the fence. Ria and Sleipnir thundered past them and wheeled back around to the east, away from the house. 

Even as she ran, she noticed right away how well trained he was, watching how he immediately darted toward the side of the nearest cow so it could see him coming. Without having to bark or nip at its hooves, the bovine lifted its head out of the grass and trudged away from the dog, chased further toward the herd. When she was satisfied it could make it on its own, Ismene whistled again and he returned to her like clockwork. 

The further away from the house they ventured, the worse the terrain became. There was a clear border to the end of Marie’s maintenance; in some places the grass was so tall Bjorn disappeared almost entirely from view, and the ground was interspersed with wide, jagged stones. They had passed her preferred vantage point and she could no longer make out the voices at the farm. Another stray cow and a bright orange fox met them along the way, one sent back to its fellows and the other slunk into the bushes, never to be seen again. 

Eventually the pounding of hooves belonging to a much bigger animal approached, announcing that Ria had joined her.

“What’s taking so long?” she teased from atop the horse. “Marie said your little friend there is an expert herder, I thought you’d be done by now.”

“He might be but I am not,” she poked the closest foot sticking out of the stirrup. “There’s way more to this farm than I thought. She must own half the bloody Hold!”

“This place would shut up that braggart Nazeem alright.” 

“And who is that again?”

Ria’s jaw dropped. “You mean you  _ haven’t _ met him? He’s Thane of Whiterun and makes sure everyone knows. What about his wife Ahlam who complains about it to everyone who listens? I feel sorry for her though…”

“Can’t say I have. I’ve been trying to… keep my head down.”

“That settles it. When we get home, I’m giving you a tour of the city and we’re going for a drink. Call that a Companion’s hospitality.” When the conversation lulled from there, she supplied, “if you want to, that is.”

“I would.”

“Okay— _ whoa! _ Steady big guy.”

Bjorn stopped dead in his tracks, forcing Sleipnir to dance aside lest he trample the dog. His eyes were focused and not a muscle quivered in his entire body, even his ears which were perked forward. Ismene had seen that kind of behaviour before, it was identical to what Bow-in-Teeth used to do when he smelled something alarming, like a particularly deadly predator.

She held a finger to her lips and gestured for Ria to stay where she was. In one hand she gathered her bow and an arrow, and the other she used to press Bjorn’s hindquarters to the ground, praying he wouldn’t bolt. By this time the horse had picked up the scent and was pawing the ground nervously, tossing his head and snorting. 

A substantial, dark form emerged from a gap in a nearby outcrop, ambling on all fours. Its gait was extended as though its front limbs were far longer than the ones in rear, but it moved with purpose. Suddenly it stopped and began to grow—no, it wasn’t getting bigger, it was  _ standing _ . 

It had been no bear that was chewing through Marie’s livestock like a child with a love of sweetrolls. 

It was a gods-damned  _ troll _ .

“Merciful mother Kyne,” she wheezed, backpedaling toward Ria. “What the fuck,  _ what the fuck _ .”

“Is that what I think it is?” her sword was in her hand but her eyes were wide like saucers. “I’ve never fought a troll before! Only bears!”

“Go get Farkas. Make sure Marie gets inside. Gods alive,  _ hurry! _ ”

“I’m not leaving you out here alone with that thing!”

“You’re on a damn  _ horse _ , just go!”

The minute she raced away, Ismene gathered Bjorn in her arms and ran to higher ground, praying the troll hadn’t seen her. It definitely knew she was there, given the way it scented the air, but she needed to put distance between them. As soon as she was able, she put down the dog, braced herself on one knee, and drew an arrow. 

The troll stood at its impressive height and stared directly at her with its teeth bared. It chuffed a few times as it jumped in place, slamming the ground with its fists. When the arrow she fired sunk into its chest, it snapped the shaft off and bellowed.

Then it charged.

It closed the gap between them much more quickly than she had expected, and effortlessly scaled the outcrop she took refuge on, giving her time to shoot just once. It shook that off too, and swiped at her as soon as it cleared the edge, making her sprawl away in order to get out of its reach. 

Bjorn leapt at the troll, but was smacked over the side and into the long grass. His pain-filled yelp felt like a knife in her ribs but she couldn’t afford to rush to his aid.

Ismene continued to backpedal, letting go of as many arrows as she was able. The troll never quit stampeding forward and eventually she ran out of space to flee. Her back foot slipped off the precipice and she fell over the edge, rolling down the jagged slope. She landed on her side, bow skittering away across the ground and out of reach. Hissing, she sat upright and stood shakily, just in time to watch the troll bear down on her.

A whinny pierced over its roar and suddenly Farkas was there, slamming his whole body into the troll after leaping from Sleipnir’s back. It remained upright, but was ripped from its focus on the fallen woman. She couldn’t decide whether or not it was the most impressive thing she’d seen yet.

Having also dismounted, though not in as an extreme way, Ria hastened to her side and returned her bow. They rushed apart, Ismene stepping back in order to reclaim her lost vantage point, and Ria took her knife in hand then launched it at the troll. It bounded around Farkas, unsteady for the massive gash across its chest and made a beeline for her, but the warrior was faster. He pushed her aside and got belted in her stead. 

The troll turned and stood upright, ready to swipe at Ria while Farkas was recovering from the blow he’d taken for her. The hilt of her dagger protruded from its shoulder but it hardly seemed to notice—in fact it appeared more enraged than before. It also gave Ismene an idea.

Stowing her bow, she crept along the rocks until she came to the highest point of the small platform then, praying under her breath, she ran at full tilt toward the edge. Drawing her own knife, she jumped as her toes cleared the side, falling down on the beast. She landed on its back and grabbed hold of as much wiry fur as she could to steady herself. It flailed wildly like a bucking horse, but it was unable to dislodge her, even though the tips of its filthy claws ripped across her jaw, leaving shallow tracks over her chin and lips. With all the strength she had, she grabbed Ria’s knife and swung down with her own, driving the point deep into its topmost eye.

The troll loosed a furious scream and clawed at its brow with both hands. Blood streamed through its thick fingers as it staggered, now free of the woman who stabbed it. Blinded, it fell dead to its knees with Farkas’s sword impaling its gut straight to the hilt.

He wrenched the blade free and wiped it off on the corpse, sheathing it before attending his teammates, a noticeable limp in his stride. 

“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” He sounded proud and grinned through the darkening bruises on his cheek earned when the troll hit him. “How you holdin’ up, girls? Ria that was a damn good throw.”

“Aela’s been helping with my aim,” she boasted, trying to move Ismene’s hands away from her face to inspect her wounds. “Get—put those down!”

She shook her head but pulled them off anyway, staring at her shaking, bloody palms. The cuts bled down her neck and under the high collar of her shirt and she began to feel dizzy. She let herself be seated on a nearby field stone and took the cloth and potion Ria pressed into her grip. She released a breath and took a moment to regain her bearings before speaking.

“A troll,” she said, a shaky smile growing across her healing mouth. “I can’t believe I just stabbed a damn troll in the eye!”

“Looks like that training’s paying off. Gonna make a warrior of you yet,” Farkas clapped a hand on her shoulder and nodded. “See what I meant about teamwork though? You trusted us enough to get here in time to help, and we knew how to count on you in turn.”

Ria punched the air in front of her and danced like a boxer. “We can make mincemeat out of anything, the three of us!”

Ismene grinned. He was right. When it came down to it, she’d been able to push her issues aside and function normally. Well, as normal as one could while trying to avoid being gored by a troll.

######

“You’re sure you won’t stay for another day or two? Even to make sure you’re well rested?”

The three Companions stood at the foot of the Craghorn farmhouse’s steps the next dawn, packed and ready to return to Whiterun. The night before, after the fight, they had gone into Rorikstead to pick up supplies and later helped Marie cook a large dinner in celebration of the task, by her insistence. 

"Would that we could," Farkas answered mournfully. He was going to miss her cooking, most likely. "If we take too long, the others're gonna start wonderin' where we got off to."

"If you need us again, please write and we'll come back," Ria chimed in, smiling when he nodded enthusiastically. 

Marie clicked her tongue. "I've taken it as a promise, now. I don't want to see some other faces come round if I do put in a request, got it?" She sighed. "Take care, dears. And you there," she narrowed her eyes and wagged a finger at Ismene, "remember what I told you."

"I will," she assured her. Although she was a pleasant enough old woman, that was a future she definitely didn't want for herself. She did admit that she found both Farkas and Ria easy to get along with, and understood that their presence would quickly become a positive distraction. 

"Good. Come here, all of you." She swept the three of them in turn into a brief embrace. Letting go, she waved as they made their way down the road toward Whiterun. 

  
  
  



	8. The Nature of Fellowship

**** A lone figure in mage’s robes blinked rapidly as he stepped out from under the shadow of Whiterun’s gate, overtly aware of the heads that turned as he passed. He suppressed a sneer in the depths of his hood, opting instead to return their obvious suspicion with a waxy smile. Here they were, marking him as a threat while they lived oblivious to the real danger in their midst.

The disgusting creatures they allowed to survive,  _ celebrated _ even, at the expense of others. Treated as heroes while disguising the profane. The thought alone made his blood boil, but he kept it tightly controlled. It wouldn’t do to make himself an enemy of those he was going to save.

He pushed open the old oak door and stepped inside the Drunken Huntsman, pointedly ignoring the Bosmer proprietor who greeted him, and overlooked the narrow glare of the Dunmer mercenary as he headed for the corner of the room. 

He couldn’t meet their faces, knowing how closely they flirted with their own deaths by living in this city.

Taking two bottles of Honningbrew mead off the nearest rack, he clicked the appropriate payment in the dust-free rings left by their vacancy. The thought of poisoning one of them crossed his mind—it would take care of his target for sure, but the idea of missing out on watching the blood drain from its body was galling.

He would be patient in his hunt. They would all come to him eventually, and meet a surprise when they did.

So he waited.

Right on cue, the door swung inward in a flash of light, and the silhouette of the one he was meeting was revealed as it strode proudly in. His gorge rose at the sight. The most unsavoury of creatures masquerading as an honourable old warrior, partaking in the flesh of the fallen while it fought under an ancient banner.

Breathing deeply, he sank back into his chosen persona—a meek scholar, not dissimilar to the man he’d killed for the information. Taking the lives of the unafflicted was always regrettable but their sacrifice, in the end, was necessary. They died so others could live.

The beast’s remaining eye roved over him shrewdly, mistrusting. And what nerve it had, to wear platemail with its true face moulded into the chest so boldly. He wrung his hands together, as part of his act, but also to mask how his fingers twitched as they longed for the silver knife strapped to his arm under his billowing sleeves.

He was glad the mongrel didn’t decide to touch him in greeting.

“So what’s this information you couldn’t be bothered to disclose in your letters? Why the meeting in person?”

“Ah, hello to you as well, sir Skjor.” His tongue curled as he spoke its name. “I figured by your words you were an upfront…  _ man _ , but might I bother you to talk in comfort?” He gestured to his table and the drink. “Academia is best discussed at leisure.”

“I’ve not got the years left for leisure, and I’m a busy man. Whelps don’t train themselves.” It crossed its arms, but his expression never wavered. “But I suppose I’ll pay hospitality where it’s due.” It sat, but didn’t ease its stiff posture, and angled its body in a way that its weapons were visible.

“Much obliged.” Oh how he wanted to reach across and slit the bastard’s throat. “My associates and I—that is one of the excavation teams from the College—have stumbled upon something we believe will be worth your while.”

“So you said. What is it?”

“Ah, ah. Patience, friend.” He shuddered, hoping it mistook his revulsion for nerves of a different kind. “We operate on grants, you see, and out patronage is… thinning.”

It scowled. “You’re seriously asking me for coin?”

“I promise you, this information is to  _ die _ for.”

After a moment’s deliberation, it withdrew a tattered purse and planted a fistful of Septims on the table.

“Will that do?”

He didn’t have a figure in mind, but this was sweet—being paid for a killing by the one to be destroyed. 

“Yes, thank you.” He added the money to his coffers, filing the desire to scrub his hands raw away for later. “We have gathered clues pointing to the location of a fragment of exalted Ysgramor’s weapon. Wuuthrad.”

The wolf’s brows knit together. “Where?”

“Ah, that’s the thing—”

“—I’m not paying you another cent.”

“No, no!” He wrung his hands again. “The site isn’t prepared. Our clues are from scripture, you see. But they aren’t like the usual hearsay, it is as good as confirmed, as good as if we held it in our hands.”

“You didn’t happen to bring any of this ‘proof’ with you?”

“Why sir Skjor,” he withheld a gag, but produced the stamped missive from the Arch-Mage he’d stolen, “do you not trust me?”

“Trusting blindly is a fool’s mistake,” it grunted, inspecting the authentic documents. “Fortunately there’s good talent in the blood we have. We’re a little hung up at the moment, but the Harbinger’ll get in touch with your Arch-Mage about this. Wuuthrad doesn’t belong in the hands of some soft-bodied scholars.” 

He squinted ever so slightly, not having counted on this one being so savvy, or paranoid; he’d certainly underestimated its intelligence. It didn’t matter if he called the bluff, the intel he’d tortured out of that young Apprentice was true and more likely than not the College’s headmaster would agree.

“Naturally, naturally,” he simpered.

“That’s that then.” He stood and nodded brusquely. “Safe travels… what was it again? Carver?”

“Krev,” he corrected, “and you’d do well to remember it, friend.”

#####

"So it's true, then."

"The seal's legit?" Sitting across from Kodlak at his desk, Skjor raised one eyebrow. 

"It is. I've been in touch with Savos Aren off and on in the past year. This appears to be the same work as those who have been excavating Saarthal."

He knew exactly why, and hoped the master of the College of Winterhold wasn't overly curious as to why the Harbinger of the Companions was so interested in lycanthropy, or at the very least literature on related subjects.

"What do you think? The mage outright said the site's unprepared. We haven't got the manpower to spare." He gestured loosely to the ever present sky-high pile of requests that cluttered the desk. 

"We'll wait, of course. It's been years since we last heard news of this kind. The Companions have… slipped, shall we say, from their former glory." Kodlak's forehead creased and he breathed deeply, trying not to cough. "I have something I've been observing that I believe will fit nicely come time, worry not."

"It's the new-blood, isn't it?"

He hummed. "She shows potential."

Skjor frowned. Was he really going to bank something like this on someone like that?

"Maybe so, but she's not integrating herself. I wouldn't be surprised if she leaves soon."

"The spirit is in her, brother, made dormant by recent hardship. With the right push it will awaken." 

"I don't think it's a good idea to put such responsibility on someone who clearly doesn't want it. Ysmir's braids, the woman doesn't even give a shit about what this place stands for."

"As I said, she needs to be pushed." Kodlak sighed, the sound rattling in his chest. "Patience is the virtue a Harbinger relies on most, second only to understanding. You must remember that, when your time comes, Skjor. Do not give up on someone just because they've given up on themselves."

"My apologies, Harbinger." He paused, noticing the gloss of sweat taking shape on the older man's face. "How are you feeling?"

His eyes drifted closed for a fraction of a second, but it felt like an hour. 

"There is life in me yet." His voice was quieter than the statement called for. 

"Can I get you something?"

Finally the cough broke out of its restraints and the minutes ticked by before Kodlak was able to breathe properly. His jaw tightened. He hated that he was literally watching his most trusted friend die.

"Ask Tilma to put the kettle back on. It seems I must once again indulge in that awful brew. Arcadia is a sweet a woman as any but her concoctions are most certainly not." He took another shallow breath as he made to leave. "Put your mind at ease and you'll find things have their way of working out the way they are meant to."

He wouldn't, he knew that. If Kodlak’s hunt for a cure was successful and he shed his beast blood, his life would end that much faster. His soul may be redeemed in the eyes of Shor, but Skjor would never be ready to face the world without him in it.

He would not see him at all in the next.

######

Slowly but surely Ismene fell into a sluggish routine, and was beyond relieved that the instructors rotated, depending on who was available. That wasn’t to say the training got any easier or that she walked away with any fewer bruises but at least she could keep her cool longer with the others. Tutelage under Aela she decided was her favourite, as having a chance to improve her tactics with her preferred weapon was a breath of relief amongst the rest. Even Farkas drove her to her absolute limit, kind though he was.

A full two months passed in painful days and difficult nights. Mornings while at the hall were spent working up a sweat in the training yard and, once she was able to maintain some energy, she would be given jobs that would send her all over the Hold, rarely alone. It was a grueling lifestyle compared to her days of blissful wandering but she was slowly growing used to it. 

Despite herself, she was even coming to enjoy the solidarity among her fellow ‘whelps’ in the moments they were actually together. Athis and Ria in particular were easier to get along with, the former becoming a frequent sparring partner and the latter, dare she say it, an actual friend. That wasn’t to say settling in was easy. Arguments and physical confrontations were common between herself and Njada, and it looked like the two of them would never see eye to eye. 

Outside of training, the members of the Circle kept to themselves with the exception of Farkas, who seemed to genuinely enjoy socializing with his shield-siblings, even when he was the butt of their jokes. She was legitimately relieved that Vilkas kept his distance, even if she could look up and find his cold eyes on her whenever they were in the same place. It always prompted some form of sarcastic comment which he would return with a scathing remark; the frustrating interactions nearly came to blows on many occasions. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone?   
  
There were some days she looked forward to training, and these saw her rising before many of the others. Much as she had come to take comfort in their presence, she craved the solitude that granted a reprieve for indulgently dark thoughts. 

And those continued to tangle themselves, no matter how she picked away at them.

In the dusky rose of imminent dawn she pummeled a rope bound dummy, savoring the sweat that beaded on her forehead and the ache in her arms. An exasperated breath escaped her as the practise weapon slipped out of her fingers, stuck in the faux opponent’s side.

A dry chuckle that turned into a deep, laboured cough dissolved her concentration completely. 

“I see you’ve managed to find the weakness in its armour.” 

Running the back of her hand over her forehead, Ismene turned to find Kodlak comfortably seated on the steps behind her. She was truly surprised at his appearance; she had seen the man maybe twice since she had met him, and only in passing. 

“Good morning, Harbinger,” she replied jovially. “I’m not sure how it got stuck, this sword isn’t sharp enough to cut butter.”

“It’s an old straw dummy. We’ve been meaning to replace it for awhile now, but no one ever gets around to it. That’s what happens when pups take their frustrations out on things with their real weapon.” There was a fond warmth in the way he spoke, as if he were reliving a particularly good memory. “How are you finding your time with the Companions?”

She paused in her efforts to pull the blade free. 

“Well enough,” she started slowly, shrugging. “I never expected to fit in right away, but I’m glad they’ve accepted me.” She paused. “More or less.”

Kodlak assumed the girl referred to Vilkas rather than Njada, whose continued antagonising was anticipated and duly reciprocated at this point. There was a clear difference in the reasons they didn’t get along, but he would keep his theories to himself. He quietly observed their newest run through a few more drills, glad to see that she could correct her own forms reasonably well. 

“Are you finding what you need here?”

She froze and let the point of her sword drop. The focused expression she wore morphed through uncertainty to sorrow and anger before settling on bitterness. He had to wonder what her motivations for attaining combat prowess were, and hoped she wasn’t using it irresponsibly. His gaze followed her as she began to pace.

“What I want,” her voice was unusually sharp, “I can never have, ever again.” She faced him, mouth twisting in a grief-stricken grimace that vanished quickly, but didn’t fade from her eyes. “And I’m forced to accept it.”

_ Ah. Still so young to experience that kind of loss _ . Kodlak gestured for the pup to join him on the steps. He spoke again when she took a seat. 

“Why is it that you joined us?”

She replied in subdued tones after a lengthy pause. 

“I came here because I heard there was… that I could find reliable work. Not chasing dreams of glory, not to knit myself to a legend. Hasn’t been easy and I know some of you want me to leave, but I stayed because I have nothing to go back to. Everything I lived for, my entire future was hung up on…” she rubbed her palms over her face and sighed. “Doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll not bring it up again. Forgive me, Kodlak, I’m doing my best to get… to move on.”

The Harbinger understood her pain well. It always felt insurmountable in the early days, but time would be good to her. The people here even better, though she clearly could not see that yet. Opinions would change, he was certain, and if his hopes came to fruition, she might become the thread that would knit them together tighter than ever. In the meantime, he would lend an ear if the girl put aside her pride long enough to accept help. 

“Never forget that you can lean on your shield-siblings, Ismene,” he advised. “You are all here to support each other and some day, mayhap sooner than you know, you will have to be able to work together to survive. Honour, and  _ trust _ above all else are the lifeblood of the Companions.”

“It’s not that. I  _ want _ to be here,” she blurted, fearing he had misunderstood her intentions. “I can commit to this, really. I just need a little more time to… adjust.”

“Yes, I figured you were a bit out of place before,” Kodlak smiled. “Don’t worry child. You’ll see your fair share of adventures and build many memories with our family.”

After a short while spent in comfortable silence, the Harbinger returned to his chamber, leaving Ismene alone on the steps with her thoughts. 

She fiddled with the practise sword, tracing patterns in the dirt. Creases formed at the corners of her mouth when she recognized them as being the glyphs from the odd wall in Bleak Falls Barrow. The characters for ‘ _ fus _ ’ drawn over and over and yet she still could not fully decipher them. 

“What’cha drawin’ there?” a deep voice rumbled beside her ear. “A bunch of lines? Does it mean somethin’?”

Her hands flailed and she dropped the sword, gasping in surprise. 

“What the—!” Crouched behind her with his head nearly resting on her shoulder was Farkas. “How did you sneak up on me?”

Jostling her as he dropped his bulky frame down on the step, he shrugged. “Guess you must’ve been pretty out of it cause I wasn’t even trying. Or maybe I’m just that good.” He reached down between their feet to pick up the fallen sword. 

“Maybe,” she hummed, scraping over the sigils with her toes. “It’s nothing. ‘A bunch of lines’ sums it up well enough. They  _ do _ mean something but I don’t know what, if that makes any sense. Are you getting a jumpstart to start training too? It’s early for you, isn’t it?”

“I was up gettin’ something to eat and I saw you sittin’ out here through the window. Figured you could use a little company.” 

Ismene didn’t need to be looking at him to hear the smile in his voice, and it bloomed a warmth in her chest she had almost forgotten. This was probably what Kodlak meant. 

“I appreciate that, thank you.”

The largest Companion settled a heavy arm across her shoulders in a brief squeeze. “Anytime. Just lookin’ out for you.”

“I suppose this means you’re leading the drills today?” 

“Nah. I’m actually off to the Pale for a couple days. Something to do with frost trolls taking over an important crossroad.” He put his hands together and cracked each of his knuckles with a loud pop. “I can handle it.”

She wouldn’t pretend she wasn’t disappointed. 

“That’s too bad, I was looking forward to working on my defense. And the company’s not bad either.” She laughed. “If we can’t have you, who are we getting?”

Farkas peered at her for a second as he thought. It looked to her like he was trying to choose his words carefully. 

“Well… Aela and Skjor aren’t back from hunting yet and I don’t think you’ll see ‘em for the rest of the week, so... guess it’s my brother.”

Scowling and groaning through pinched lips, Ismene planted her elbows on her knees and hunched over with her chin in her palms. That effectively broke whatever tranquility she’d managed to get back after her talk with Kodlak. 

“Great. Best news I’ve heard all day.” 

“Come on, don’t be like that,” Farkas nudged her, oblivious to the side eyed glare she gave him. “Vilkas is a good teacher and you could learn more from him than me any day. Skjor even says I got the strength of Ysgramor and he got his smarts.”

Now that was a laugh. Even if she knew comparatively little about the legend of the Companions’ founder, there was no way the ever-surly twin could stack up if he tried. 

“Yeah, and  _ I’m _ Tamriel’s greatest dragon slayer. Not to say anything against  _ your _ character of course. I just don’t see it.”

“You could, if you got to know him.”

She looked at him incredulously. 

“Are you serious? From the instant I met the man he’s had it out for me. Why in Kyne's name would I give someone like that the time of day?”

Inside the mead hall, said ‘someone’ was glowering as he watched the conversation out the slim window. Vilkas had risen extra early so he could see his brother off and instead found the stray taking up his time. He had been unsuccessful in driving her away through intense training and unkindness—well, more so than he’d ever given the other whelps anyway. No, instead she had turned around and challenged him right back even though she knew her skills were far below his. Only recently had she begun to match him tooth for tooth, at least in their charged arguments. 

The worst part of it was that he was starting to enjoy them. Not to say that he particularly looked  _ forward _ to verbally sparring with her, of course not. He was simply keeping the lesser members of the pack in their place, as was proper, given how it was slowly becoming abundantly clear she wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

As he picked up the sound of their voices getting closer, he all but bolted toward the table to throw himself into a chair then pulled an empty mug forward and filled an old plate with half eaten bread. Wishing there was a book to stick his nose into, he struggled to ignore the knowing glances Tilma tossed his way. 

“I was here the whole time.”

“Of course, dear.”

The door pushed open from the other side to admit Farkas’s booming laughter and Ismene’s protests.

“Really, Farkas, it’s not  _ that _ funny!” she whined, although a grin forced its way into life. “It could have happened to anyone.”

His brother wiped at his streaming eyes as his huge shoulders heaved with unrestrained chuckles.

“No I don’t think having a stiff, crusty old draugr fall out of the wall onto you just  _ happens _ .”

“I was trying to get a jump on it.”

“It got the jump on  _ you _ , looks like. Hahaha!”

“Ugh, see if I tell you anything any more,” she huffed under her smile. 

“You’ll have to tell me more tales some time.  _ Nobody _ in Jorrvaskr gets out of stories,” he asserted while he ruffled her hair.

Vilkas’s chest tightened as he tried not to listen to the easy camaraderie between his twin and the stray. Something about it didn’t sit right with him, and he couldn’t help but notice that she looked and sounded so  _ different _ when she wasn’t irate. The wolf nudged against its tethers, urging him to take over the conversation, but he stayed silent. Nothing the beast wanted he would oblige, but his sinus cavity had other ideas and released a violent sneeze. 

The room quieted instantly, the atmosphere rigidifying. He could hear Farkas’s heartbeat quicken the way it did when he felt awkward and anger seeped into the stray’s scent. 

“Defeated, even by a corpse? Why does that not surprise me.”

Farkas shot him a disapproving stare. “Vilkas, c’mon.”

Ismene however, was not so tactful, nor was her offensive hand gesture.

“At least a draugr has more personality.”

“Than you? Obviously we—”

The rest of his retort was drowned out by the front doors of Jorrvaskr blowing wide open and the sudden intrusion of one of Whiterun’s guards. Farkas readied his greatsword at the same time as she nocked an arrow. The way they stood together made them look like a real team and it set his teeth on edge.

“I’m looking for Ismene Haugen,” the guard panted. “Is she here?”

Lowering her bow, she stepped forward, frowning deeply. 

“I am she. What's going on?” 

“In trouble with the law, are you?” Vilkas spat. “I knew—” His words died as an arrow lodged itself into the tabletop in front of him. 

“Not. Now.” she hissed.  _ Not ever _ . “What do you want with me?”

“You’ve been summoned by Jarl Balgruuf. He says it’s of the utmost urgency.”   
  
  
  
  
  



	9. The Nature of Force

“What? The Jarl? What could he possibly want with  _ you _ ?” The condescension in Vilkas’s voice was palpable. 

What indeed?

Ismene ignored him. She slung her bow across her back and strode toward the guard. 

"What happened?”

Fidgeting under his dark look, the guard said, “I was told only to find you at Jorrvaskr. Come with me.”

Many weeks had passed since she had last set foot in the Cloud District, but she distinctly remembered Balgruuf saying he would find something for her to do. It appeared the day had finally come. Bidding good luck and farewell to one brother while staunchly avoiding the other, she allowed herself to be led out of the mead hall and up to Dragonsreach.

The difference in its residents was distinct and immediately noticeable. They had distributed equipment between themselves—even the maids were clutching daggers in white knuckled fists. Worry settled in the pit of her stomach and she broke into a sprint toward the throne. Something was wrong.

This time it was not Irileth but Balgruuf himself that addressed her first. His brows were drawn together, his mouth set in a grim line.

“They found you, good,” he said gravely. 

“What happened? How can I help?” Her form was rigid, but she was ready. It was time to put her training to use for something other than farm work and fighting off small groups of bandits. 

“I will be brief, for the situation is dire,” the Jarl stood up, a battleaxe clutched in his fists. “A dragon has attacked the Western Watchtower.”

Heart leaping into a suddenly dry mouth, she was unsure she’d heard him right.

“And… this is something I can help with?” she squeaked. Draugr and bandits were not fire breathing lizards. Just the thought of facing down anything like the horrible red eyed monster that pervaded her nightmares was enough to nearly send her into cardiac arrest.

“You are the only one in the city who has survived such an assault,” he said sternly. “As such you are our… greatest asset in this matter. Besides,” he eyed the new Dwarven metal bow Proventus’s daughter had helped her make a week back, “you’re a hunter aren’t you? Slaying beasts is what you do. On top of that, this is exactly the sort of battle the Companions chomp at the bit for.”

Was he seriously trying to goad her into fighting a  _ dragon _ ? On some level, though, he might have been right. Chewing the inside of her cheek, she scanned the faces standing around. If she did this… and survived… it would certainly give her an edge over her dour faced rival. Mister ‘ _ killed one of everything in Skyrim _ ’. Not a fucking dragon, she’d bet. That, and Whiterun’s safety was in the balance. Yes, that definitely came first. Could she really do it? 

As if hearing her own strained words spoken by someone else, she said, “let’s do this.”

Immediately, Irileth dashed away from the throne toward the door. “We will meet by the gate,” she instructed.

She wasted no time following and was immensely thankful that she had donned her leather armour that morning, even if it had been in preparation for something else. Was she confident? Absolutely not. Terrified? Completely. Her father once said, she remembered, there were thresholds in life to cross that would prepare a person for what came next. Helgen must have been that for her twisted as the logic was, for now here she was, a wanderer taking on a dragon.

Beyond Whiterun’s gate, Irileth led her and a sizeable troop of guards on a short but tense jaunt through the plains toward a half crumbled stone tower. The guards already stationed there were on high alert, weapons drawn and arrows pointed at the sky. She squinted up as she readied her own, trying to spot the dragon among the clouds.

The Jarl’s housecarl broke the quiet. 

“Before we begin, do you have any advice?” She was in battle mode now, professionalism dripping from her words.

Ismene strained to think over the knots in her belly and the pulse in her ears. 

“Keep your distance and, ah…” she swallowed, “listen to its breathing?”

Whatever Irileth barked back she didn’t hear around the resonant roar that shattered the air over the fields. The guards filed into position as a giant, inky shadow passed over them all. She prayed to every deity whose name she knew to hold her hands steady and her aim true. Oh, and to keep her from being burned alive.

Another roar scattered the loose stones at their feet. The loud beating of wings heralded the dragon’s appearance and it hovered overhead, watching them all with beady yellow eyes. Rough green scales plated its sinewy body, and sunlight streamed through the numerous tears in its wings. It was a different beast than the one from Helgen, which was simultaneously a relief and horrifying. Just how many of the damn things were there?! 

The guards went on the offensive right away, firing arrow after arrow at the dragon, most of them bouncing harmlessly off its armoured belly. It hardly seemed to notice the ones that actually penetrated its hide. Then came the telltale gust of air signalling that it was preparing its flaming breath, and Ismene immediately rolled to duck behind a section of the broken tower. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, waiting for the unbearable heat to die down. Why had she let herself be talked into this? All she’d ever done in the face of a dragon was run away.

The words ‘ _ cowardly stray _ ’ echoed through her mind. In response, whatever part of her had reacted to the strange power in the barrow reappeared, slithering through her veins and strangling her fear. She was no milk-drinker! These people were counting on her! 

Setting her jaw, she nocked an arrow and twisted her body around the wall. The guards had broken their formation but never stopped their assault. From her vantage point, she could see dark stains forming on the dragon’s muzzle, and droplets of sizzling blood rained down from its wings as it soared overhead.

The dragon landed on the highest section of the tower no sooner than she emerged from her cover. It loomed menacingly, golden eyes roving over them like a cat before mice. A thunderous growl rolled out of its long neck as its murderous gaze came to rest on her. Then, it  _ spoke _ .

“ _ Ahh,  _ Dovahkiin,” it rumbled, its language indecipherable. “ _ My master will praise me greatly when I kill you _ .” It opened its jaws wide, “ _ YOL! _ ”

Unable to back away fast enough, Ismene fired her arrow into the stream of flame. There was no feasible way the shaft survived the blast, but she was more concerned with smothering the fire that now engulfed her. Gasping in pain, she stumbled backward, beating her hands wherever she could reach. Her armour protected her from most of the heat, but already large, shiny burns coated the parts of her arms between her bracers and shoulder guards. 

Gritting her teeth against the intense stinging, she fired another arrow, then two, then three. The first bounced off the hardened carapace of its forehead but the second and third embedded themselves in its snout. A steaming hiss seeped from between its fangs as it clambered down off the wall, shaking the ground as it shifted its considerable bulk. Without hesitation, it lunged forward, snapping its jaws in an attempt to bite her. This was a wounded animal’s desperate attack, one she saw coming and therefore was able to avoid.

“ _ I will enjoy the taste of your flesh! _ ” it screamed, bringing out a wing to send a stealthy guard flying. The weakening dragon was growing desperate as it became surrounded on all sides by Irileth and the Whiterun guards. 

Now that its attention was elsewhere, Ismene took aim. Sucking in a breath, she shot another two arrows in rapid succession just as the dragon opened its mouth wide to bite a guard. It choked as the projectiles lodged themselves in the back of its throat. Its neck bent sharply, issuing a retching noise before a quick flare of fire appeared between its scaly lips. Hissing, it released a small lump of glowing charcoal and molten metal, residue of the destroyed arrows. 

While it was distracted by her barrage, a guard raced forward with a guttural war cry, his axe raised above his head. The dragon lazily met his charge, grabbing the man between its teeth with a sickening crunch. It pierced his leg with the claw on its wing before rearing back, ripping the guard in two in a spray of blood and shredded flesh. It was a thousand times worse than watching a fox tear into a hen.

Horrified by the sight, debilitating tension built in her brain and behind her eyes, hindering her thought process. No wily plans of action beyond bludgeoning the beast to death came to her. On top of that, the guards had become hesitant to approach as it stomped around snorting and snapping at the men. It was playing with them now, haughtily confident in its display of violence. Shooting it was barely effective, so she had no choice but to face it head on. 

With shaking fingers, Ismene slid her gladius out of its sheath and dashed forward while the dragon spewed more fire onto the guards. Wary of the thick spiked tail, she slowed to a crawl, praying that the others would not give away her location. They didn’t need to. The dragon had seen her and, occupied as it was, it flicked its wing to knock her clear off her feet. She landed hard on her back, the impact rendering her breathless and forcing the sword from her hand.

The dragon wasted no time whipping its massive head back around. It brought its nostrils inches from the pinned woman and released a puff of hot, foul air directly into her face. 

“ _ You cannot escape me now _ .” A vaguely speech-like growl, almost like a purr filled her ears, loud even over the white noise. Giving her a front row view of its gore covered teeth, it lunged.

  
_ Do not let it best you _ .

The second her fingers reached the hilt of her sword, she snatched it up in both hands and, with a bestial roar of her own, drove the point into the roof of the dragon’s open mouth. Its body thrashed wildly in suffering, deafening her with its agonized howls. She continued to push forward, adrenaline dulling the searing of her burns and the fangs that sliced through her biceps. A final, shuddering flail of the dragon’s neck ripped the gladius from her blood slicked hands and freed her from underneath.

Gasping for breath, she kicked herself away from the corpse and struggled to push to her feet. There was no strength left in her arms and her legs quaked far too violently to hold her up. She could barely move her right arm through intense pain; there, sticking out of the laceration was a piece of one of the dragon’s fangs. A pair of hands took hold of her underarms, heaving her upright and supporting the weight she couldn’t. 

“That was a great risk you took,” Irileth’s curt voice came from behind. “But it paid off. We must get you to a healer and report to— what is the meaning of this?!”

The dragon’s body had begun to flake away. Each scale glowed brightly at the edges as the flesh under it burned from within. Dark, acrid smelling ash rose into the air until nothing was left but the skeleton. As it disintegrated, a wave of bright, luminous energy swirled from the dragon and directly into Ismene.

If the magic of the tomb had emboldened her, the power now etching itself into her very soul made her feel invincible. For the briefest moment she was fully alive, glorious and mighty again with her magnificent wings and razor edged claws. None of these mortals could ignore her splendor any longer. Drunkenly, she blinked to clear her vision. She didn’t  _ have _ any of those attributes, and why was the name  _ Mirmulnir _ so strongly on her tongue? 

A strange whisper that vibrated her very bones grew audible, insistent like a person far too tired of repeating themselves. Its rustling sound was harsh, sharp and impossible to ignore.  _ Force _ , it told her, was the meaning of ‘ _ fus _ ’. 

How… did she come to know that so suddenly? Her breathing became short and laboured as she tried not to hyperventilate. Panic crushed her heart in its icy grip; what was happening to her?

The remaining guards were murmuring in astonishment amongst themselves. In answer to Irileth, one of them said in awe, “Dragonborn.”

“You took its very  _ soul! _ ”

“Like the heroes of legend!”

Releasing Ismene once she was able to stand, Irileth marched into the congregation of guards. 

“What is this nonsense? I don’t know what you’re blathering about, but you all have jobs to do! The Jarl needs to be informed of what went on here,  _ immediately _ .”

The guard who had spoken first crossed his arms. 

“You’re not a Nord so of course you don’t understand,” he said, a touch petulantly. Then, to Ismene, “Try Shouting something, go on!”

“N-no, no! It’s not…” she struggled to find the words. Impossible. There was no way. Utterly ridiculous. “Com-come on,  _ me _ ? Dragonborn? And that… soul or whatever you called it probably… passed through. Into him.” She pointed to a different man, who managed to look bewildered despite the full face mask he wore. “Why don’t  _ you _ try, ah, ‘ _ Shouting _ ’.”

“Um, alright.” Sheathing his sword, he inhaled deeply then bellowed, “RAAAAAAAH!”

There was a sharp slap as Irileth buried her forehead in her palm. “You fool…”

Ismene had to disagree. Watching the guard scream to no effect had been rather hilarious, and it helped calm her turbulent mind somewhat. Still, the restlessness that had come to life in her chest since striking the killing blow on the dragon reinforced the echoing in her blood, and now it was threatening to break its way past her lips. The longer she thought about it the worse the pressure became, building and building until she felt it might splinter her ribs. 

The word was out of her mouth before she could stop it. 

“ _ FUS! _ ” 

Immediately the bushes, other debris, and even a shallow rooted tree stump directly in front of her flattened or were ripped out of the soil entirely and sent flying at such a distance she lost sight of them. She shuddered visibly, eyes wide. That… was like what the draugr had done!

When the dust settled, a guard breathed, “Wow… so  _ that _ is the power of the  _ Thu’um… _ ”

Even Irileth’s doubtful expression had turned to surprise. “Yes, this is  _ definitely _ something the Jarl needs to hear. I doubt it has anything to do with your bizarre Nord legends, but the fact that dragons can be killed will give us something to work on. Back to your posts.”

The guards snapped into a collective salute and began their march back to Whiterun in file. Irileth guided wounded Ismene through the field, thankfully without peppering her with questions she had no answers to.

Silence pervaded their return until, just as the gates came into sight, a tumultuous clamor rent the sky itself.

“ _ DOV-AH-KIIN!! _ ”

######

  
“…That is all I can do for you. Take care to keep the edges clean and come straight back if you become feverish. Are… are you listening?”

Ismene blinked out of her reverie, allowing the inside of the Temple of Kynareth to filter back into clarity. The priestess, who had been healing the wounds inflicted by the dragon, was giving her a worried look. 

“Oh, yes,” she mumbled. “I was. Fevers. Come back.”

The priestess clicked her tongue as she walked away to dispose of her materials. 

“These adventurers, far too reckless. Dragons.  _ Really _ .”

Taking that as an official discharge, she slipped off the low bench and emerged out into the orange glow of evening. Sitting under the ashen branches of the Gildergreen waiting diligently was Lydia, a stocky, dark haired woman Balgruuf had assigned to be her housecarl. To go with her shiny new title of  _ Thane _ . Apparently, assisting in the death of a dragon was worth both title and property.

That wasn’t to say anything of the healthy debate regarding whether or not the Greybeards had summoned her to their monastery at High Hrothgar. To which, naturally, Ismene was firmly in the ‘no’ camp. She vaguely recalled pleading with anyone who had witnessed the odd occurrence with the dragon’s corpse to keep it to themselves until the entire 'Dragonborn' business was sorted out. Meaning, until  _ who- _ or  _ what _ ever had been called made itself known, because it definitely was not her. Alleged use of the Voice or not.

“My Thane!” Lydia was at her side in an instant. “Are you alright? How do you feel? You  _ do _ look a little less pale than before.”

“Don’t call me that,” she said bashfully, waving her away. “It’s too formal.” This arrangement, and the housecarl herself, would take some getting used to. Who assigned such a person to someone who had no house? She strongly doubted the woman  _ or _ her shield-siblings would take well to this kind of presence in the whelp room. 

“It’s who you are now. I am sworn to carry your burdens.”

She snorted as she led them through the Wind District toward Jorrvaskr. “Well you’re going to have an easy time of it then. I’ve got nothing for you to carry!”

Lydia didn’t respond, though the displeased look on her face spoke volumes. 

Every Companion who was not off on a job occupied a seat in the mead hall when the two women entered. There was some form of row going on, if the half full tankard that sailed past the doors in front of them was any indication. 

“You shut your  _ dirty lying mouth _ , Torvar!!” the livid shriek was Njada’s. “It was  _ your _ fault they came after us in the first place!”

“Yeah, but  _ who _ cleaned up the most that day?” the functional drunk slurred. He stood from his chair and wobbled his fists in a series of punches. “There they was, five—no  _ twenty _ five huge bandits comin’ at us and this one—” he pointed at Njada or at least in her approximate direction, “was just sittin’ all wide eyed like a little bunny rabbit— _ ghk! _ ” 

The irate fighter's second throw didn’t miss, and Torvar caught the iron mug directly in the face. A round of applause followed in the absence of the man’s boasting.

Ismene and Lydia took the opportunity to discreetly take up two vacant chairs but lo and behold, a crass voice called out from the opposite side of the room.

“Well look who it is. The Jarl’s errand girl.”

Most of the heads in the room turned away from Vilkas onto them.

“What happened to you?!” Ria gasped. “You’re all… burnt? Were you fighting fire mages or something? And what does he mean about the Jarl?” 

Uneasiness welled up into her chest, wondering how they would react to even the mention of the word ‘Dragonborn’. It would almost be funny. ‘ _ You? _ ’ they would say, ‘ _ a stray dog with  _ that _ power? _ ’ She could just… omit key details. Squinting at the table in front of her, she idly pinched at the prongs of a fork. 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” She could barely understand it, and she'd been involved.

Athis leaned forward on his elbows. 

“Try us,” he drawled, glancing at his incapacitated friend. “We need  _ something _ to chase down Torvar’s multiplying bandits.” 

Catching Lydia urging her on out of the corner of her eye, she sighed. 

“Alright, but I warned you. Early this morning a guardsman came calling,” she began slowly. “Said the Jarl was looking for me. Couldn’t see why, so I went with him to find out.” 

She paused to scan the faces around her. She only held the attention of Athis and Ria, though she was sure Vilkas was listening around his reading. Torvar, to his credit, was passed out on the floor. 

“When I got there, the entire place was like a kicked anthill, weapons on everyone. Apparently one of the watchtowers was under attack.”

“And they asked for you specifically?” Athis inquired, gesturing to the others. “Not just ‘go get one of the Companions’?”

She shrugged. “First and clan name. It made a  _ little _ sense later on. After all, who else in Whiterun survived a dragon attack before?” The buzzing of voices that followed her statement made her want to grin in spite of how terrified she had actually been. 

“When else?” It was more a demand than a question coming from Vilkas. He had set aside his book by that point and was staring at her intently, expression otherwise unreadable. 

She had not expected to be asked to elaborate. All of her bravado withered away, leaving a chilly emptiness. “I was… I was there, when Helgen was burned to the ground. By a dragon.”

“So that actually happened?” the query was Ria’s. “I heard it was some fight between the Legion and Stormcloaks that got out of hand.”

Oh they had been there too. Ismene shook her head in the negative, willing her voice not to crack when she next spoke. She coughed the tension out of her throat. Maybe she should have kept her mouth shut. There was no turning back now, so she may as well make it good.

“They are huge beasts,” she went on, spreading her arms for effect. “Colossal wings, tails thicker than ancient trees, and fangs the length of daggers. It took an entire troop of guards, Balgruuf’s housecarl, and myself to bring it down. There were so many arrows in its hide by the end it would make a porcupine jealous.” She paused for dramatic effect, “and my sword that struck the killing blow. Come to think of it, I never got that back. Damn.”

“You? I doubt it,” Vilkas challenged. “Earlier today you were telling Farkas about a…  _ mishap _ with a draugr. How do you go from  _ that _ to felling a dragon?”

“First of all,” she snapped, “I  _ just _ got through saying how many people were involved. Secondly, that was months ago and before I even thought about coming here. Don’t believe me?” She dug in the pouch at her waist and threw something from it at him. “Catch.”

It was difficult to see the object in the dimness of the mead hall, and so it slipped through his fingers and clicked softly against the floor at his feet. He bent over and picked up the curved, surprisingly sharp item. Bouncing it against his open hand, he heard Ria ask what it was. Though broken off at one end, it was easily the length of his whole palm and hard as steel. His eyes flicked upward to catch the stray smiling smugly at him.

“It’s a fang, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “Part of one, at least.” Removing a pauldron and the bracer on the same arm, she traced out a partially healed wound. She placed a fingertip at the very top of it, near her armpit. “It got stuck right here somehow, and broke when I stabbed it in the mouth. My blade went right up into its brain, I think.”

Athis let out a low whistle. “That’s going to be one hell of a scar.”

“Please,” Njada scoffed, standing. She pulled back the hem of her collar to expose a thick, silvery line that cut across the base of her neck and disappeared below her shirt. “Orc bandit, almost twice my height and three times my weight. Decapitated the fool with his own axe.”

After that, the discussion turned to past injuries and soon became a rather revealing scar comparing contest. Beyond the three on the left side of her face given by the first bear she'd killed, and a large one on her chest from a past accident with a bowstring—which she refused to show, Ismene had nothing story-worthy. She’d been lucky enough to have a mage-healer for a best friend in the majority of her life, and so was out early on. 

Feeling the need for quiet but not tired enough to turn in, she dismissed Lydia, much to the housecarl's distaste, and once again found herself sitting on the veranda behind Jorrvaskr. The cool night air was the perfect balm to the phantom heat she still felt from the dragon fire. 

What should she do now? Did she answer the Greybeards’ summons? As much as she wanted to deny it, deep down she feared they were right about the Dragonborn issue, and did not particularly want it confirmed. But how else was she able to Shout like that, as if on instinct? What did it all mean? Did she have a responsibility to go along with this power? Would she have to fight more dragons?

Lost in her own worries, she did not hear the door behind her open and close, or the sound of boots on the stones. The scrape of the opposite chair at the small table startled her into awareness. The identity of the intruder surprised her even further. 

“Too loud for you in there?” she asked quietly, prepared to turn the harmless question into an affront should she need to.

Vilkas hummed, shrugging. “I’m used to it.”

Then why was he out there? Had he… followed her? Ismene frowned, she was not in the mood for his attitude. 

“I’ll leave you to it then,” she muttered, making to stand.

“Don’t,” he blurted. “Don’t—I mean you don’t have to.” The muscles in his stubble darkened jaw twitched but he did not look at her. 

Her eyebrows shot up toward her hairline. This was new. She wondered if he was finally recognizing her building strength. It was a shame it took killing a dragon to do so. The question now was: ought she to remain? She didn’t know what to make of this behaviour but if this was some kind of tentative truce, she could oblige couldn’t she? Maybe he was finally tired of arguing with her all the time. At the first sign of enmity, however, she was out of there and would not look back.

The once peaceful lull of the evening swiftly turned awkward. Vilkas appeared to be struggling to find something to say while Ismene was content to stay quiet, though she felt his presence stymied her ability to mull over her thoughts. Perhaps, for now, that was beneficial. Still, she knew the uncomfortable air between them would soon become stifling.

He sat continually cursing his beast for its seemingly harmless curiosity, and himself for indulging it. From the second she had vacated the hall, he had been filled with an inexplicable urge to follow her. He’d remained inside as long as he was able to ignore it. He wanted to explain it as the wolf needing to keep her in sight now that her scent had changed. Pine and soap, tinted at the edges by unnaturally metallic smoke; present before but far stronger now. Unfamiliarity equalled danger.

Unbidden, conversations with Farkas drifted to the forefront of his mind. His brother had become strangely adamant that he and the stray try to get along. Kodlak, too, had warned him that the inability to put aside petty hostilities could get one or both of them killed. He imagined this was also Farkas’s reasoning and he was upset he could not find a flaw in it. 

Damn the lengths he would go to for those men straight to the pits of Oblivion. 

At last, the tension was broken when Vilkas slid the dragon fang across the table. 

“You left this inside,” he said dully. Yes, how eloquent of him, the man famed for his words.

Ismene stared intently at the object, chewing her lip. What a bizarre olive branch this was. 

“No, you can keep it. I’m sure I’ll find another.” 

That wasn’t the right thing to say.

“You’ll ‘find another’?” he parroted, finally turning his eyes on her. “You expect to do battle with another dragon? And  _ survive _ ?” His tone wasn’t quite mocking as it was bewildered, like she had suddenly gone mad.

“It’s a possibility.” A certainty, if any one of her wild extrapolations was correct. “But next time I’ll take it as a trophy, instead of wearing it home.”

He snorted. “Decide it wasn’t a good look for you?”

She squinted at him, disbelief in her features. “Did you just make a joke?”

“I do possess a sense of humour, you know.”

“By the Nine,” she breathed, a teasing lilt edging into her voice. “Here we are in Skyrim, legends coming to life. First dragons, now this. Quick, someone get a scribe.” 

The glare was back on his face, but the usual heat of it was absent. 

“You judge me too harshly,” he protested.

The laughter immediately faded from her eyes, snuffed like a candle before a gale. 

“You haven’t given me a reason not to.” She shook her head in disappointment as she slowly rose from her chair. She could tell this conversation was headed in a negative direction and she was far too exhausted to participate. “Enjoy your evening.”

Vilkas did not respond, and was left to stew in his thoughts alone. He absentmindedly fingered the outer edge of the fang, wondering where to go from there.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	10. The Nature of Teamwork

**** Several days later, Kodlak summoned the members of the Circle into his quarters. It was one of those instances in which all of the Companions were home and he planned on taking advantage of that. The moment they assembled he began the meeting.

“It’s good to see you all here together,” he said warmly. “And in fact that is why I’ve called you in.”

From her place by the door, Aela inquired, “is it something we have to take care of as a pack?”

Her choice of words put a look of disapproval on Vilkas’s face. “I would think a situation  _ that _ dire would require more  _ blades _ ,” he cut in, specific emphasis on his own.

Kodlak overran the pups, stamping out a quarrel before it began. “That’s enough. I believe that we, as a guild, would benefit from a teamwork exercise, to build morale.”

“What, like children?” Skjor groused. “Are you going to send us all off on a hunt?”

“No, but I will take suggestions.” He leaned forward in his seat, eyes flitting to each of them in turn. “Something that can be managed within the city and isn’t likely to land us  _ another _ bill of property damage.”

“Wouldn’t want Avenicci to lose any more hair,” Aela chuckled. “Alright, so if leaving Whiterun is out and we’re including the whelps…” she shrugged.

Surprisingly Farkas was the first with an idea. Practically bursting with excitement, he exclaimed, “tag battle!”

Vilkas looked at his brother, whose pale blue eyes were alight with elation. 

“What, like we chase them through the streets?”

“A manhunt? Now that would be a little unfair for the whelps,” Skjor said, tapping his nose. “They don’t have our…  _ advantages _ .”

Farkas shook out his head like a wet dog. 

“No, not like that. One of each of us,” he pointed to himself and then at all of them, “picks a whelp and we fight two-on-two until there’s only one pair left.”

“Farkas…” Aela sighed, pinching the space between her eyebrows, “there are  _ five _ whelps, and only  _ four _ of us.”

The large man’s face fell. “Oh yeah. Didn’t think about that. Unless you wanted to join us, Kodlak?”

The Harbinger laughed dryly. He enjoyed the eagerness he displayed and in that moment it was easy to remember him as a boy. 

“I think that would be unfair to whoever ended up being my partner, but thank you for offering.”

Not liking to see him look so put out, Vilkas added, “well it’s mid morning so… Torvar should be deep in his cups already. He may or may not wish to participate.” 

Without waiting for anyone else to put forth an idea, Farkas squeezed him round the shoulders with a beaming grin before bounding out the door. “I’ll go see!”

“I guess this is what we’re doing, is it?” Skjor pushed himself off the wall. “Who picks first? Not all the whelps’ styles will match up with ours, and last go gets no say.”

“Alphabetical order is usually fair.” Aela’s grin was feral. 

“You only say that because it would guarantee you first pick!” Vilkas retorted. Like he would be last, stuck with the bottom barrel talent.

Once more, Kodlak intervened. “Aela is correct. Alphabetically in pairs,” he began. “Aela and Athis, Farkas and Ismene, Skjor and Njada, and finally you, Vilkas, with Ria.”

Aela tilted her head, mouthing inaudible words, mentally calculating. 

“Yeah, that seems fair. It’ll keep grudges out of the pairs and force those who have them,” she sent a long look at Vilkas who harrumphed and looked away, “to hash it out.”

Kodlak clapped once. “Excellent. Off you go then.”

#####

  
Most of the Companions filed under the covered porch around the back of the mead hall, standing in a wide half circle around Farkas who was boisterously demonstrating the rules of his game. He relayed Kodlak’s decision of the teams which was met, initially, with some complaining but ultimately accepted.

“Okay, the most important thing, for those of you who swap, is to pick one weapon and stick with it,” he explained. “If you make someone bleed, you’re out right away. Even if there’s armour on, keep it above the belt,” he sent a pointed look at Njada, “and if someone says ‘uncle’, you let ‘em up. We’re not tryin’ to rearrange no faces here. Right. First up is Aela ’n Athis verse Skjor and Njada!”

“Oh this’ll be good. Grudge match,” Ria said, rubbing her hands together. She nudged Ismene before they took their seats beside their respective partners. “Wanna make a bet?”

“Don’t forget we’re enemies now,  _ and _ the outcome of this is going to be who Farkas and I have to fight.”

“Bold words,” Vilkas said smoothly, casting a sidelong glance at her. “Planning to let him carry you to victory, stray?”

“Oh no,” she retorted, wagging her index finger at him. “That’s enough out of you. Actually… Ria, let’s do that. Let’s make this interesting.  _ When _ we win, you’re buying next time we go to the Bannered Mare. And  _ you _ ,” she jabbed a thumb at Vilkas, “have to start calling me by my name. You  _ do _ know it, right? It’s not that difficult.”

The younger of the twins scoffed. “Obviously. Fine. When you  _ lose _ , I reserve the right to trade jobs with either of you, should what you get be more to my tastes.”

“That’s a good condition. Wish I’d thought of it,” Ria nodded. “Alright, if we win… the next cache of treasure both of you find is mine. Even if it’s got five hundred Septims and thirty gems.  _ Especially _ then.”

Ismene grinned. “Deal. Farkas? You in?”

He jerked into awareness, blinking like he’d been half asleep. “Hm? Oh, are you betting?”

“Pay attention, ice-brain.” Vilkas kicked his brother under the table. 

Cuffing him on the back of the head, he huffed, “shut it. Anyway, yeah. You guys lose, you gotta pay for my equipment to get fixed the next five times. And I take a lot of hits.”

“Make sure there’s less hits today,” Ismene cautioned. “We’re playing to win.”

Ria pointed toward the yard. “Oh look they’re starting.”

The split second the fight began, Njada sprang into action and launched herself at Athis, empty hands curled into fists. Having predicted this, Aela stepped in front of the Dunmer and slammed the pommel of her sword into the other woman’s stomach. The interception allowed him to avoid Njada, but otherwise it didn’t faze her. Skjor took the initiative as his partner checked Aela to bash Athis with his shield.

“Thought we wouldn’t see that coming?” Aela grunted as she twisted out of Njada’s hold. The Huntress’s follow up swing was blocked by her foe’s heavy bracers but she quickly recovered and went again with a blow aimed at her hip. 

The sword landed against the front of her leg with a dull thump and sent Njada pitching forward. The temporary pugilist used the momentum to her advantage and delivered a solid punch to Aela’s jaw.

“Thought you’d rather keep the heavy hitter off your partner actually,” Skjor fired back as he went toe to toe with Athis’ rapid flurries. 

The smaller, more agile man was successfully keeping the aged warrior on the defensive, forcing him to leave his shield up. He took a wide step forward, driving the solid metal closer to the dark elf to throw him off his rhythm, sending a swift downward chop into the opening he’d created. The dull sword struck home on the top of Athis’s shoulder, jarring his arm and nearly causing him to drop his own blade.

“I was,” she teased back, narrowly avoiding a punch that gusted past her nose. 

As Njada’s second fist connected with the centre of her chest Aela belatedly realized Skjor had been deliberately dividing her attention. Grinding her teeth, she redoubled her efforts with a heavy backswing that caught Njada in the side of the head. The flat of her sword rang loudly against the shorter woman’s helmet and sent her tottering backwards.

Athis immediately gave up on battering Skjor in favour of leaping at the off-kilter Nord with a triumphant roar. Grabbing the straps crossing the front of her armour, he dragged her in close to smash his forehead into her face. He wasted no time in holding his sword to her throat. 

“Yield!” he panted, grinning widely. 

In turn, the one eyed man put his own blade to the back of Athis’s neck. 

“Yield,” he commanded. 

“This is happening?” Aela drawled, coming up behind Skjor, but before she could level her weapon with the back of his head, he lashed out and smacked her away with his shield.

“Like I would willingly fall into that,” he barked, baring his teeth in a crooked smile. The two began circling each other as their fallen teammates crawled off the field, already bickering and independent of the help of the other.

She twirled the hilt of her sword between her fingertips, never taking her eyes off his. 

“I’m waiting.”

“You know me,” he bantered, crossing the distance between them, slashing downward. “Not one to disappoint.”

Up in the veranda, Farkas had rendered Ria nearly to tears in laughter at his silly commentary of the fights. 

“There they are, goin’ for the jugular,” he annotated. “Oh, that’s gonna hurt in the morning. Ooh yikes, is she trying to take off his head?”

Ismene was entranced watching the flash of their blades. 

“Now I understand why all the bards say it’s a deadly dance. It’s… beautiful?”

“It can be, when performed skillfully,” Vilkas was also impressed by his shield-siblings’ talent.

The fighters in the ring knew the ins and outs of each others’ moves exquisitely well and it showed. They stood face to face, swords crossed in a grinding deadlock, each pushing with all the strength they had, neither willing to break the hold. The one to move first would be the one to fall. 

Aela growled, the sound eerily animal-like as she tensed the muscles in her torso and gave a mighty shove which gained her the ground to step forward. 

Skjor, who had a decent physical advantage over her, shifted a foot to the side and caught her ankle with his heel as she walked. Releasing his pressure on the locked swords, the energy she invested carried through, their entwined feet tripping her in the process. Rather than let her fall, he dropped his shield and grabbed her wrist with his free hand. Crushing her to his chest, back to front, he slid his sword up under her chin. 

“Yield?” he breathed, pressing the cold steel closer to her skin.

Her nostrils flared but she didn’t struggle. 

“I’ll never say it,” she refused, then louder, “one of you! Call the fight.”

It was Vilkas who cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Aela loses!” 

“ _ Not like that! _ ”

The next batch of combatants rose from their seats right away, weapons in hand. Descending the steps, the four divided into their respective teams.

“Alright, Farkas, remember the plan?” Ismene called out as she took her place behind him, a little off to the side. 

The large man rolled his shoulders, releasing an audible crack from the base of his neck.

“Yeah I got it,” he played along, sending her a wink and a thumbs up. 

“Wait we were supposed to strategize?” Ria gave a panicked look to Vilkas. “What the hell!”

“Did it look to you like any of the  _ others _ planned ahead beyond ‘blindly attack your rival’?” he bit back. “They’ve not coordinated. Don’t overthink this.”

From the porch, Njada yelled, “get on with it!”

Mumbling something about ‘annoying whelps’ under his breath, Vilkas broke the ice by stampeding toward his bulwark of a brother. He swung his greatsword up in a diagonal arc that Farkas evaded by taking an equal step back. The slimmer of the twins moved to raise the long blade again, but a wax tipped arrow whistled by so closely to his cheek a bladed one would have shaved the hair in its path. The momentary lapse in his movements allowed Farkas to forcefully shove the edge of his dull blade crossways across his opponent’s body.

“Hey ice-brain! Pay attention!” he taunted, a toothy grin splitting his face, though he gave him time to recover. The contest had only begun but he was already enjoying himself.

Sunlight danced along the edges of the screeching metal as the brothers clashed. There was not a single sweep of a blade that the other could not avoid or block even as their eye contact remained. There was almost a lightheartedness to their deadly show, a joy in the fight forged by years of practise and the trust between them.

Ria stepped in to free her partner from Farkas’s attentions by jabbing forward with her short sword. She nimbly twisted away from the long reach of his parry, allowing Vilkas to advance. 

He had to stop short to evade another arrow that rustled the part of his hair. So that was their plan? Continuously force him to avoid being shot in the head so his brother could dish out free hits on the stronger of the pair? A simple but easily demolished strategy.

“Go get her!” he demanded of Ria, rounding once more on Farkas. He may not be as physically resilient, but he was wily, and did not hesitate to dig his fist into his belly while he was preoccupied.

Seeing Ria make a beeline for her, she switched targets, firing off two more arrows before she was set upon. One of them bounced off her knee and the other bruised her upper arm, but still she did not pause. Grasping her bow in both hands by either end, the archer brought it up to stop the other woman’s sword from caving in her skull. 

“You brought a bow to a swordfight?” she questioned above the repeated clang of her sword on the metal bow. Shifting the angle from which she was swatting without warning, she smacked her full across the face with the flat. With a little more confidence behind it, that hit could very well knock out someone’s teeth! Or cleave their head in two, if the weapon was sharp enough.

Ismene vaulted away from the onslaught, reeling from the hit she’d taken. 

“Told you, we have a plan,” she replied breathlessly. The distance she gained allowed her to shoot again, this time the arrow glanced off the back of Ria’s gauntleted sword hand. The projectile hadn’t landed quite where she’d wanted it to, so instead of causing her to drop the blade, it fell pointlessly away. 

In the process of avoiding arrows, Ria realized too late that she was being corralled toward the clashing twins. Once she was in range, Farkas ducked under Vilkas’s headsman swing, the tip of the blade scraping noisily against her shoulder guard instead. While she faltered, Ismene lashed out at Vilkas with her bow, swinging it like a club. She missed in a spectacularly exaggerated fashion, but succeeded in making an opening for Farkas to rush away and put Ria in a headlock. 

“I got you!” he crowed. “Do ya give in?”

“Alright, okay!” she wheezed, “jus—just let me go, Farkas, you’re— _ ack _ —choking me!”

“Oops.” He released her with a sheepish smile. 

Meanwhile, Ismene pressed toward Vilkas, jabbing with her bow as if it were a spear. The uneven weight, extended length, and curved shape made a drastic difference in her reach and power. She wasn’t trying to hit him so much as she needed to get him into a good position for Farkas to attack. Regardless, she didn’t think she could, for he caught every one of her awkward strikes with some part of his sword.

“By Ysmir, stray, can you use  _ any _ weapon properly?” he shouted incredulously, already tiring of her impractical tactic. He allowed a hit just so he could counter with an upward stroke that broke her defense and cut across her torso. Seeing the startled look on her face, he rammed the cross guard into her chest. Flipping his grip on the hilt, he prepared to level a thrust that would win him the fight in an instant but was knocked aside by Farkas barreling into him. 

She took advantage of his weakness and brought her bow sharply down across the back of his knees, buckling his legs and sending him further off balance. She pounced, ramming her shoulder into his chest, and pinned him to the dirt. A danger-filled smile stretched her lips as she pressed the grip of her bow against his throat. 

“Yield,” she growled, smug satisfaction written all over her features. 

_ It would be easy to crush him beneath your talons… _

Unconsciously, she put more weight behind the bow. His sharp gasp cut through her.

_ Wait, what am I doing? _

“A true Nord...” he garbled, eyes narrowing, “never backs down!” Despite his words, he was immobilized by his own astonishment. Not exclusively at the outcome of the contest, but at the reactions his beast was having to her proximity. It was making him acutely aware of the strands of her hair tickling against his chin and the pressure of her knees against his as they squeezed his legs together. It yowled loudly for him to overpower her, reverse their position and remind the dog who was boss. It wanted to know if her heart tasted the way it sounded. 

His voice was strained but icy and he averted his gaze. “Let me up.”

A wolf whistle from the pavilion had Ismene and Vilkas flying away from each other as though scalded. 

Scrabbling to her feet, she spat, “ _ take that back!” _ It took every ounce of self control to not empty her quiver in their direction. Such a thing hadn’t even entered her mind!

No, what had crossed it was brandishing her victory to the defeated in an undeniable way. That she was the one that came out on top, and rightly so. She had never felt the desire to  _ destroy _ an opponent so strongly in her entire life than in that moment, to watch the breath drain from his lungs as he begged her to spare him.

That wasn't like her at all, so where had it come from?

The red faced Nords were both seized about the shoulders in a suffocating one armed hug by Farkas. 

“Look at you two,” he laughed. “Gettin’ along just like I said you would.”

Vilkas squirmed out from under his hold. He would hardly call an attempt to collapse his windpipe ‘getting along’ but then again he didn’t have Farkas’s naïveté. Being brought closer to Ismene, however, roused the beast once more to scrape under his skin.

It didn’t make sense. He’d sat beside her at meals before, and they’d been inches apart during training, so what had changed? It wasn’t as if he had just met her—he wasn’t dense after all. The position they had been in wasn’t anything but part of the battle, especially in light of stupid remarks. No, something about her was different and the wolf was picking up on it, and heeding him to respond with violence. He needed to talk to Kodlak, right away.

“As much as I would like to see you and the stray lose the game, I have… other matters to attend to,” he announced stiffly, picking up his pace and retreating toward the doors.

“Hey!” her shout was indignant. “Don’t forget, you lost the bet, pay up!”

Just as his hand touched the wood, he threw an exasperated look back at them. 

“Alright, alright,” he said. “Try to lose with  _ some _ grace… Ismene.”

By that point, Njada and Skjor had already joined them in the yard for round two. 

“Let’s get this over with,” she said, taking position. Her dark eyes glittered under the rim of her helmet, never moving from the archer standing across from her. 

“Reign it in,” Skjor rasped, nodding at Farkas. He’d been watching the previous fight closely and wouldn’t be fooled by their bait and switch tactics. Njada would be a good foil to Ismene as it was infinitely more difficult to block a fist with a bow than a sword. He’d been sparring with Farkas for years, not worried at all about receiving the bulk of his attention. 

Ismene struck first this time around, landing a shot on the exposed part of Njada’s arm. Knowing the other woman favoured close combat, she had to get in as much damage as she could before she was set upon. She was famous among the Companions for outlasting men double her size or more by defending until they tired themselves out. It was a poor match up, especially considering her fighting style relied heavily upon taking out foes from a distance. Waxy training arrows could not do that. Not of course, that she  _ wanted _ to cripple her shield-sister…

Farkas focused on breaking Skjor’s defenses by stabbing powerfully at his knees, an area that was more awkward to cover. His movements were slow, however, and the older man was able to step back instead of raising his shield. Not waiting for him to withdraw his sword to strike again, Skjor pummeled into him with the shield, following up before he could blink with a stab against his front. The tip of his sword squealed against his breastplate and he could not get away before he was body-checked.

On the opposite side of the training dummies, it was taking Ismene a monumental effort to elude Njada’s rapid punches. Even so, her cheek stung with a quickly darkening bruise at the point where her knuckles had pointedly invaded the exact spot Ria’s smack had landed in the fight before. She couldn’t shake the feeling that had been done on purpose. 

“Hold still,” Njada growled as she failed to connect with an uppercut. “Stand your ground and fight, snowback!”

“Why, getting tired?” Ismene snapped. She changed her grip on her bow, bringing both hands together on one end. Twisting her arms back, she swung upward and clobbered her across the jaw and neck. Her grandfather’s disapproval at using the weapon this way was the last thought in her mind before she was taken to the ground by a full body tackle.

All pretense of a skillful battle forgotten, it was apparent that Njada just wanted to beat Ismene black and blue. If the darkened eye and swollen lip she was developing were any indication, she was already succeeding. Humiliation lanced through her for letting herself be taken down the same way as she had done to Vilkas minutes before. The same callous emotion she’d felt upon that victory rose up and burned away her shame.

_ You disgrace the  _ dov _. Force her away _ .

She did  _ what _ to  _ who _ ?

Then it was there building in her chest, the same pressure that had made her first and only use of the  _ Thu’um _ impossible to avoid. She had to resist, even if it would get her adversary away from her. She wasn’t going to pull an Ulfric Stormcloak against an ally even if they never cooperated. The power filled her limbs with so much energy it bordered on painful; she released a roar and heaved herself up, smashing a fist into Njada’s widened eyes. Her bow lay abandoned where she had dropped it.

From there, their combat degenerated from an amateur boxing match to something akin to screeching cats clawing at each other in the gutter. Wordless taunts were exchanged through exposed teeth and barbaric glares as they pounded against every reachable surface. It took the intervention of both Farkas and Skjor to pull them apart.

“Alright that’s—calm it down, both of you!” Skjor bellowed, struggling to maintain his hold on Njada, who was desperately trying to break free. “The fight is—damn it, be still whelp!— it’s  _ over! _ ”

Both women had battered each other badly. Ismene could not see out of a swollen eye, and blood ran down her chin from a split lip. Njada spat out a glob of crimson stained saliva onto the ground. There was a sizeable cut above her right eyebrow and the area below her nostrils was smeared red. 

“Broke the rules,” Farkas grumbled, disappointment lacing his voice. “I said no bleeding, and both of your faces look different. So that means you’re out. And…” he hung his head. “Skjor beat me fair and square. You won the whole game.”

There was a brief burst of applause from Aela and Athis as the four approached them. The dark elf in particular looked pleased at his rival’s injuries, an expression which earned him several expletives and disturbingly detailed threats. 

“Well at least you didn’t turn around and get put down,” Aela mused. “Means we lost to the undefeated.”

Skjor simply shrugged and followed her inside the mead hall.

Ismene collapsed heavily into a chair, wiping her mouth with a greying cloth she pulled from her pouch. A deep frown embossed her face as she pressed a cool bottle of mead against her puffy eye. 

Twice that day she had felt something from inside urge her on to hurt her teammates. She couldn’t excuse the sensation as competitiveness—it had gone far beyond that. Was this already the effect of refusing the dragon’s power? It had only been a week, for Talos’ sake! How much worse was it going to get?

A pat on the top of her head from a large hand broke her train of thought.

“You doin’ alright?” Farkas rumbled, peering into her blackened eye. 

“I’m fine. Nothing a potion can’t fix,” she waved him off. “Sorry I broke your rules. I just…” She clenched a fist before letting it fall with a sigh.

“Hey, can’t win ‘em all.” He nudged her with an elbow, winking. “At least you got one over on my brother, eh?”

A small smile lifted her bruised cheeks. “Now you have bragging rights. That’s important with siblings.”

He laughed loudly. “Know what, we shoulda been keeping score all these years. Or maybe not, wouldn’t want to make him any worse than he is, ha. So what are you getting out of the bet? I, um, wasn’t listening.”

“Ria’s buying my mead and hopefully Vilkas drops that stupid nickname.” Her voice was bitter at the edges. “I don’t necessarily  _ care _ to be in his esteem but I won’t take his shit anymore.” It wasn’t wholly a lie—there was something to be said for changing the opinions if naysayers after all. She wouldn’t go out of her way to prove herself to the man but she was more than sick of being needlessly disrespected.

He hummed, scratching at his stubble. “I think I get it. You’ve come a long way since those first days.  _ I’d _ be proud to fight beside you.”

“Like today?” She offered a drink to him, which he accepted. “I think we make a good team too.”

“Yeah, just like that.”   
  


######

  
Another two weeks passed by just the same as the ones before it. Training, work, and forging bonds were the call of the hour and through that Ismene found herself falling into melancholy less and less. On the other hand even simple challenges—such as the nest of bears she, Ria and by association Lydia had been sent to exterminate—began to etch the  _ Thu’um _ into her throat. The power was becoming more and more difficult to deny. 

She needed to do  _ something _ about it as she feared it would appear at an inappropriate time and expose her as something she didn’t want to be or worse, hurt someone. Like it or not, it looked like she might be climbing the Seven-Thousand Steps sooner than later. Sooner, however, was not close enough that she would not be sent away once again.

Skjor approached her with the details. 

“Well, well,” he said, “seems your chance to prove yourself has come. Someone’s decided you’re worth your salt after all. This is a big one.” 

Lifting her head and turning away from the feathers she was cutting, she asked, “what, no more wildlife? Not that I mind of course…”

“Don’t get smart with me. We’ve discovered the location of another fragment of Wuuthrad, somewhere inside Dustman’s Cairn. Farkas is going with you as your shield-brother to watch how you complete the trial.”

Oh. That  _ was _ a significant task. She was going to be sworn in as a true Companion? This was more than she had ever intended, but she was still giddy with excitement and it had her forgetting the dragons for the time being. She stood and dusted her lap of debris. 

“When do we leave?”

He gave a noncommittal shake of his head. “Doesn’t matter to me. Just try to make it back in one piece.”

After that, she wasn’t able to focus on her fletching and so raced inside to cram as many useful supplies as she could into her rucksack. Her time at Jorrvaskr had been fairly lucrative and she wasn’t left wanting for materials. It was still so very different than what she was accustomed to but the frequent travel had let her adjust to having somewhere to return at the end of the road. 

She found Farkas engaged in an arm wrestling contest with Torvar upon resurfacing from the living quarters. His face was beet red with effort and although he had both hands firmly clamped around one of Farkas’s, he was unable to budge his thick arm. Sweat beaded on his ruddy forehead, illuminated like a swarm of torchbugs by the light of the roaring hearth. 

Yawning, he tired of their little match and, as he jauntily waved to her, effortlessly slammed Torvar’s hands to the table with a clatter of dishware. 

“Well you did better than last time,” he remarked to the man who lay gasping on an empty plate. 

“Who,” he panted, “did you have to kill to get that strong?” 

“There’s that fabled 'strength of Ysgramor',” she laughed as she came to rest beside them. The bubble of enthusiasm in her chest grew and lit a fire behind her eyes. “I heard we’re off somewhere good, you and I.”

Farkas burst to his feet, slamming a huge fist onto the tabletop. 

“Damn right we are! I got told a couple days ago and I’ve been ready ever since! They made me keep it a secret from you and it was so  _ hard _ not to tell!”

She made a show of displaying her pack and full quiver. 

“What are we waiting for? Let’s go show that Cairn who’s boss!”

#######

  
The second Ismene lay eyes on the bedrock encased pit, she knew what was bound to be inside. Trudging down the spiralling staircase and through the ornamental iron doors confirmed her suspicions. There were few things in life she could say she truly hated and draugr were near the top of the list. A blatant shudder passed over her frame as she and Farkas passed by two which lay dead in the entry room.

“Disgusting,” she muttered, forcing herself to look away from the shrivelled forms. Instead, she focused on investigating the table, thumbing through a few of the books that were left out. She pocketed a soul gem and wrinkled her nose at an embalming tool she found while lifting the corner of a half burnt tome. 

Farkas’s voice was too loud in the stale quiet of the room, even over the sound of his armour as he moved. 

“Someone’s been pokin’ around here.”

“Fairly recently by the look of it,” she remarked, skirting around the corner of the table. “We better get moving, just in case they've beaten us to the prize.” That would be devastating and she doubted either of them would hear the end of it should they return empty handed. The phantom disappointment made her toes curl in her boots.

“It’s your show,” he smiled over a half bow as he gestured for her to take the lead. 

Clutching her bow in her right hand, Ismene proceeded with caution, keeping her eyes peeled for anything that might come shambling out of the dark. As they went along the deserted halls, she noticed that her partner had yet to draw his weapon and he walked like he was completely at ease in the stagnant crypt. It was something the others had about them too, she recalled, that sense of powerful self-assurance. Even Ria, who chattered on and on happily went about her jobs with a confidence and determination that far exceeded her skill.

Was this something they now saw in her, to have given her this opportunity? 

She was dragged out of her musing by a familiar guttural echo from up ahead. Pressing a finger to her lips, she beckoned for him to follow along quietly. He nodded but did not pull out his greatsword. Bow armed, she inched around the corner into a junction of branching paths in which a draugr stood with its back to them. Seconds later, it melted to the floor, an arrow in the back of its head. It was so much easier when they didn’t know she was there.

Eventually the branch they followed opened up into a much larger room that bore several open alcoves on the perimeter; one was sealed by a heavy iron grate. Ismene clicked her tongue, frowning. Of course the way forward was blocked off. 

She heard him hum from somewhere behind her. “That’s where we gotta go, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she sighed back. “There should be something around here that will release the gate. I’ll poke around, but watch out for trapped switches.” Memories of the Dunmer thief from Bleak Falls Barrow and his gruesome death via such traps filtered through her mind. Fear edged into her chest as he replaced Arvel in the scenario. “Maybe you should just keep watch?”

His deep chuckle rolled through the room. “Okay then. Don’t forget I’ve done this stuff before too.”

Stuffing more potions and other valuables into her bag as she went, Ismene flitted between the alcoves. In some places the ubiquitous layer of dust that covered the ancient shelves was disturbed, leaving bare shapes in the grime. Pulling a disgusted face, she yanked her hand back from a green bottle that had been very recently turned over. Nearly empty, its cork was missing and its contents spilled over a cluster of petty soul gems, creating a shimmering, amorphous mass. Whoever had been rifling through the foyer had been here too.

“Farkas,” she called, her eyes falling upon a lever on a pedestal. A bare skeleton lay with its knees drawn up to the ribs at the base of it, but the more alarming aspect was the sticky finger marks on the handle. “I found it.”

“Great! Let’s get going!”

Taking care to avoid touching the potion residue, Ismene grasped the lever and pushed. It ground into place with a satisfying clunk and she distantly heard the grating of metal on metal. Nearer, too, turning around to leave only to watch as the room she was in was barred in exchange. Exasperated, she grasped the bars in her hands, looking up to the ceiling to find a locked catch keeping the gate in place.

“Son of a  _ bitch! _ Hey Farkas! Can you—” The rest of her request for assistance died on her tongue as at least a half dozen people filed into the room, a sword in every one of their hands. In the flickering light of the candles in the walls, the blades gleamed in a way even burnished steel didn’t. Helplessly, she watched him slide into a ready position with his back to her, greatsword held aloft.

A woman somewhere out of her view asked, “so which one is he anyway?”

“Doesn’t matter,” the man who took point, a wiry brute with half his face covered in black paint, replied. He raised his blade and pointed it at Farkas. “He dies. They all will.”

What did that mean? They knew him? What had he done? He was an excellent fighter, that was indisputable, but the odds were not in his favour.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	11. The Nature of Fire

Quite some time had passed since the ambush but the situation both of them were in dredged up identical horrors and reopened the wounds Ismene had fought so hard to start healing. She could almost see Kjell standing there in Farkas’s place all over again and she was helpless to do anything but sit and bear witness as a friend wound up hurt—or worse. 

Terror froze every drop of blood in her body and constricted her breath as she watched him cut through the swath of his attackers. He could barely beat back one enemy before two more swarmed him. The way they surrounded him, nicking him repeatedly with those too bright swords reminded her of a pack of rabid dogs wearing down an enraged bear. It was too much to watch, and yet she could not look away. Her stomach roiled and the iron bars chafed the skin under her white-knuckled grip.

_ Drown them in your Voice _ . 

Acuity whispered through her veins, imbibing her with the vitality that was increasingly painful to overcome each time it arose. Power collected from her limbs into a tight ball in her chest, snaking its tendrils into her throat and under her tongue. There  _ was _ something she could do. She could call upon the  _ Thu’um _ and blast the door down, or perhaps blow away his aggressors. She would level them all with unrelenting force, and make them pay for daring to assault her friend.

Right as the Word was on her lips, an animalistic growl suffused the air, vibrating at an octave that resonated in the marrow of her bones. As it grew in volume and mixed with a terrifyingly  _ human _ sounding gasp, it roared over the echo of ‘ _ fus _ ’ in her mind. The brawl ceased almost entirely when all parties let their weapons droop to watch Farkas buckle in upon himself. The savage noise was… coming from  _ him? _

A gravelly, lethargic moan issued from his convulsing form as he sank down on all fours, hands gouging at the stone floor with newly formed claws. Sharp snapping, like branches under a gale drowned out his noises and he began to change before their eyes. 

Lengthening far beyond the confines of his skin, his legs twisted and reformed while his spine pushed out of his back, rippling with added muscle and the thick, black and grey fur that now covered his body. Breathing heavily through the snout of a wolf, he rose out of the wreckage of his armour and howled defiantly at his attackers.

“Kill the beast!”

What followed happened so fast it was revolting in its brutality.

Snarling, Farkas burst into the assembled men and women. Quicker than lightning, he seized the nearest man in his massive hands and ripped his throat out with slathering jaws. The woman who attempted to stab him while he was occupied was backhanded with enough strength that she slammed into the wall Ismene was trapped behind, where her skull cracked open upon impact. He leapt onto the next to boldly go after him, crushing his head against the paving beneath his paws, smearing the ground with dark blood and brain matter. The werewolf continued his gory rampage until nobody was left alive.

Then he turned to face Ismene.

She watched numbly as the werewolf prowled toward her, frenzied pale eyes alight with the high of his kills. The entirety of his front was dyed unnaturally black, glistening wetly with blood and his bottom jaw overflowed with it. She could not look away from his crimson stained mouth nor the lengthy fangs within. The only sounds in the crypt were his muggy, laborious breathing and the steady spattering of what dripped off him onto the flagstones.

To think this kind, often thick headed friend of hers had a beast with the ability to kill indiscriminately writhing inside him this whole time just waiting to be unleashed. It was incredibly difficult for her to surmount the dichotomy and equate one with the other, despite having all the evidence she could ever need right there in front of her. She was stunned into silence, unable to break her shared gaze with the wolf-man before her or to release her clamped hands from the gate. Distantly, she remembered that many predator animals took eye contact as a challenge, or even a threat. 

Farkas had moved close enough that she could smell how saturated his fur was. Without warning, he growled deep in his throat and head-butted the bars three times. 

The first broke her trance and she bolted as far away as she could get, stumbling over the shelving and smashing the skeleton at the foot of it under her heel. The second slam she stared wide eyed at, trying to swallow her heart back into place. The third and final he punctuated with a loud, keening whine, rubbing his hairy cheek against the grate. 

Was he… trying to get her out?

Shakily, Ismene righted herself and, while fighting the urge to palm a dagger  _ just in case _ , she tread cautiously toward the bars.

“Farkas…?” she murmured hesitantly. 

Upon hearing his name, the werewolf’s ears pricked forward and he snuffled at her. It reminded her so strongly of Bowin that she couldn’t stop the half-sob, half-laugh that bubbled past her lips. Another whine accompanied the muzzle he tried pushing through the gaps between the bars and then, without prompt or warning, he withdrew completely and loped off out of sight.

Careful to avoid the blood and foamy saliva he had wiped off, she pressed against the grate to find out where he had gone. A low groan echoed through the chamber and long minutes ticked by before the metal under her hands shuddered and slid into the ceiling. She was free! But how? It didn’t matter, she decided as she hastily gathered up her pack and bow, she was getting the hell out of there.

Just as she gingerly stepped around as much of the carnage he created as she could, Farkas, in his plain clothes, emerged into the room. The air seemed to thicken as the comrades stood stock still, staring at each other.

He shuffled awkwardly, uncertainty and trepidation plain on his face. 

“Ismene, you… you’re not scared of me now… are ya?” he asked weakly, and it was obvious that he was keeping his distance.

“Wh-what? Why would you say that?” she stammered. Was she, truly? It occurred to her at that moment how little thought she’d given to the danger  _ she _ could have been in, having been so focused on whether or not  _ he _ would make it out alive. 

Coming down from that fear, and out of the mindset she associated with refusing the Voice she could think more clearly. 

She had been living at Jorrvaskr for a few short months and had no inkling whatsoever that Farkas was a werewolf. Granted, she hadn’t been invested in a friendship with him—with any of them—until fairly recently and so was not especially privy to his habits. Did that dull her reaction to the transformation? Yes, she supposed it did. It would be foolish of her not to be wary of the man’s capability—the slaughter here was certainly a testament to it. 

“The look on your face…” his voice was hoarse. “I wouldn’t hurt you, ya know. I got better control’n that.”

That was it, the key to why she couldn’t truly fear him.

“I know,” she said quietly, crossing the space to where he slumped. “This whole time you’ve kept that secret so well, and it’s proof of your will. I still… I trust you, Farkas.” Ismene squeaked as she was abruptly swept into a bone crushing hug. If the man had stunk from a few feet away, he positively reeked up close.

“You can’t tell nobody, promise me.” 

“No one else knows?” She stumbled as he released her, grimacing at the unidentifiable mush that transferred onto her. “After all the time you’ve been together?”

He squinted at her then, his mouth forming soundless words as he worked through his thought process. 

“I really shouldn’t say this but you’ll probably find out sooner or later, now that I let the cat outta the bag. Or would it be dog?” He scratched the shell of his ear, shrugging. “There’s a few who do. The whole of the Circle and Kodlak, but that’s on account of them being werewolves, too.”

Her eyes went wide. She had been living with a literal pack of wolves the whole time?

“How in Oblivion have you all managed to keep this quiet?” she demanded, bewildered, pressing her palms to her cheeks. “One man I can understand, but  _ five _ people? Kyne’s elbows, Farkas!”

Tugging absently on a loose thread in his tunic, he smiled sheepishly. 

“Beats me. I know there’s probably a million questions in that head of yours, but I think we should move on before more of them show up.” He held up his breastplate, which was bent at an odd angle. “Guess I should bring a spare next time.”

“At least your repair expenses are covered.”

“Ha!”

######

  
The further into the depths of the tomb they ventured, the more Silver Hand members they encountered. Initially they charged single-mindedly at unarmoured Farkas but after awhile, when enough of them had been sunk by an arrow or two in their hearts and heads, Ismene found herself forced to draw her sword.

Hair whipping about as she whirled around to bring her blade up to stop her foe from decapitating her, she wondered just how large their forces were. She recovered from the block faster than her foe could right himself and lunged forward to drive her weapon through his sternum right to the hilt. Without stopping to think about the dead man too much, she inserted herself further into the fray to stab a man who was trying to sneak up on Farkas.

The collectives of bandits she’d had to fight on jobs for the guild installed a sense of efficiency that she was glad for—it had saved her life on more than one occasion. On top of that, it deadened her against the fact that she was ending lives, though it had taken quite a while to come to grips with the concept. At the time she’d wondered if that was part of the motivation behind Jorrvaskr’s well stocked mead supply. It wasn’t to say she had begun to enjoy beating the life out of her foes, but she could now find the thrill in a challenge. 

Not a bad mindset to have, if she wound up fighting another dragon. Also not something she wanted to think about just then.

Blanching as she watched Farkas cleave in half the last of the latest batch, a woman nearly as burly as he was, Ismene asked, “what exactly is it the Silver Hand, ah,  _ do _ ? I understand why they’re called that—their weapons—but why do they feel the need to convene in a barrow?”

He grimaced as he quaffed a health potion, smacking his lips against the notoriously foul flavour. Almost instantly, the multitude of cuts both deep and shallow he sustained closed up. 

“Gods. Those things might work but they sure as shit taste awful.” Carelessly, he tossed the empty bottle over his shoulder, where it shattered against a wall. “You’re really asking the wrong guy. Critical thinking’s not my strong point, least that’s what people say. It ain't ‘cause they wanna hang around with draugr. I  _ can _ tell ya that they’re werewolf hunters. At least that’s what I heard. Aela knows a bit more about it, so I’d ask her.”

She frowned, falling quiet as they traversed through cleared pathways. So a notorious—or at least identifiable—band of werewolf hunters just so  _ happened _ to show up in a tomb where a shard of Wuuthrad lay hidden? A piece of the Companions’ most sacred artifact, the group whose more prolific members and Harbinger were all werewolves? If she didn’t know better, this was a setup, or at least a coincidence so perfect it was Divine. More importantly, had Skjor known about this prior to assigning the task? 

“So… just how well kept is this…  _ hair-raising _ secret of yours?” she finally asked, trying to be as discreet as she could while getting her point across to the rather obtuse man. 

The sound of Farkas’s nails in his beard was loud in the stuffy quiet, even over their muffled footfalls. 

“Uh,” he started, “really good? Hey… don’t forget you promised not to tell.”

Stepping over an intricately engraved, raised, cobble in the floor, she elaborated, “watch that stone, it’s probably a trigger. No, what I mean is… there’s no way anyone outside ah…  _ the house _ that could have found out? Even by mistake?”

He took a larger than necessary, exaggerated stride over the stone. 

“I don’t understand what you’re gettin’ at,” he mumbled confusedly. “Uh, through here next?” 

The corridor opened up into a chamber that was more akin to a cave rather than the carved stone of the rest of the crypt. The floor and walls were carpeted by a thick bed of moss and every cranny left uncovered by the vegetation was consumed by stringy webbing. The whole affair was beginning to feel a lot like her trek to find the Dragonstone. It wasn’t a bad thing—at least she could identify what was coming for them.

Knowing she didn’t need to give a heads up, she dropped the conversation in favour of nocking an arrow and firing it into the nearest frostbite spider that squelched toward them. Two more in succession had it writhing to the ground, legs twitching in its final throes. She wasn’t risking poison this time around. 

The slight quaking of the earthen floor heralded the arrival of yet another giant spider, possibly superior in size to the one she had killed months ago.

Beside her, Farkas stiffened, disgust crawling over his features. 

“That has to be the biggest damn spider I have ever seen,” he groaned. His hands twisted the leather grip on his sword and he inched away from the arachnid. “By the Nine, you can see all the hairs…!”

Ismene, who was occupied with loading its shell with arrows, simply grunted in response. Why wasn’t he rushing in like he normally did? He wasn’t planning on making her do this alone, was he? It was a good point however; just what were these things eating to make them grow so large? The smattering of bone and the odd human skull sticking out of the moss around the cavern answered that question, she supposed. She rolled on her shoulders to duck out of the way of a thorny leg, coming to land against a low ledge.

It was fascinating to watch him bring his blade up to slice off the spider’s limb with a flick of his arms while still looking highly disturbed. He stepped back as it advanced on him, its coal dark eyes rolling madly. Why was he hesitating like that? Was it because of his lack of armour?

“Farkas!” she yelled, “come on, snap out of it!” She fired off two more arrows but it appeared that the spider wasn’t about to take its multitude of eyes off the more promising prey.

The frostbite spider bunched its remaining forelegs and lashed out blink-quick to sweep his legs from out beneath him but the werewolf was faster. Roaring, he flipped his greatsword into a reverse grip, arched his back and brought it down with all his might, stabbing clear through its head and driving the rest of the blade into the soft earth beneath. The spider released a final, sighing squelch and was still.

While Farkas struggled to reclaim his sword, Ismene moved nearer, intent on retrieving what arrows she could from the corpse. Upon closer inspection, she could see that his hold on the hilt was shaky. 

“Everything alright?” she observed, “you look a little green around the gills.”

With one final heave and a deep grunt, Farkas reclaimed his weapon and sheathed it. Taking a wide step back from the fallen spider, he stiffly shook his shaggy head and folded his arms. 

“'M fine. Let’s just move on.”

Mutely, she dismissed his odd behaviour, picked her way around the spider and led the way through the opposite doorway.

#######

  
Several trapped corridors and an assortment of live and undead foes later, the duo limped over the threshold of the widest chamber by far. Dragon-like crucible lanterns hung on ancient cables from the high vaulted ceiling, casting a decidedly ominous glow and dimly illuminating the floor. Along both walls leading to the far end black stone coffins stood on their short side, lids facing an ornate altar. Just visible through the ghostly fog that permeated the lower registers of the room at the extreme end, was the same kind of wall that had lent its power to Bleak Falls Barrow.

Ismene’s heart jumped into her throat at the sight of it and she nervously cast a flickering glance at Farkas, who had wandered off to inspect a coupling of urns on a nearby table. She didn’t hear the whispering the other carvings had offered; perhaps it was a fluke occurrence? Would she though, if she got closer? She was afraid to find out.

“This looks like the last room,” he said, returning to her side. “The shard’s probably in here somewhere. I haven’t found nothin’ yet, did you?”

Unable to remove her attention from the inscribed wall, she hummed a negative. 

They progressed mere steps further when the lids of the sarcophagi slid to the floor one by one, their occupants stepping out and raising weapons clutched in desiccated fists. When the dust settled, the coffin near the altar opened as well, giving way to an impressively armoured draugr. It raised a hand above its head and shouted a commanding statement neither Companion could understand.

“Just great,” she complained, pulling her bow as the draugr advanced. 

“Aw don’t make that face,” he nudged her as he drew his sword. “How bout this: the one with the most kills treats the other to drinks when we get home. Big guy’s worth ten points.”

“Oh, I very much like the idea of  _ two _ shield-siblings buying for me,” she challenged. A sly smile replaced her sour look as she picked off a pair of weak draugr with her bow before he could even dash off to one. “That’s two for me!”

He cut down three as he charged toward the back of the chamber, howling in victory. “Beat that!”

Continuing thusly, the teammates made short work of the undead until only the strongest still stood. It was resilient, able to stand toe to toe with Farkas and his experienced swordplay.

Ismene stood to the rear, leveling the tip of an arrowhead. At just the right angle… the twang of her bowstring echoed as it gave up the arrow and seconds later the draugr collapsed.

“Ha!” she crowed as she skipped toward the altar. “I believe that makes me the winner!” She stopped short and bowed low.

“Uh, I don’t think so, kill stealer,” he pouted, “I did most of the work!”

“Yeah yeah, you’re just—” the rest of her boasting cut off abruptly and her eyes bugged. She’d been right about coming close to the wall. In her elation about the game, she had completely forgotten about it. 

The bold chorus and their drums overshadowed whatever else he was saying and as it grew louder, her blood felt as though it were boiling in her veins. Heat licked up her legs from the bottom of her feet and climbed her body right to the roots of her hair. Blinded by the magic, she screamed and writhed inside her armour trying to rip it off, certain every inch of her skin was on fire. 

“ _ Yol _ ,” the cuneiform taught her, sonorous over her own hoarse shouting.

Then, as the chanting faded, the fever died all at once, leaving her chilled to the core. She shuddered vigorously as her eyes slowly shifted back into focus. For the intensity of the hot spell she experienced, there wasn’t a drop of sweat anywhere on her that hadn’t been there prior. Had it all been in her head? What did it mean? It hadn’t happened the last time… 

“…okay? Hey can you hear me?” Farkas was gripping her shoulders tightly to steady her. Profound concern was plain in every line of his face. 

Ismene blinked tiredly, suddenly feeling drained. 

“I’m alright,” she croaked, freeing herself, “don’t look so worried.” 

“I don’t just  _ look _ worried, sis, I  _ am _ ,” he insisted gently. “You spaced out real hard and I thought I was gonna lose you for a second there. What was that?”

Her features crumpled in confusion and she squinted intently at him. He wasn’t able to hear the song, or her yelling for that matter? Had she… not  _ actually _ thrashed or clawed at herself? Ismene lifted her arms and found no scratch marks, no loose buckles.

“I—I’m not sure,” she said slowly. “I think I’m just worn out. Something about this place is getting to me maybe.” It certainly had, she thought, still able to hear the ancient anthem in the wild thrum of her pulse. 

He pressed a palm to her forehead, frowning. With a skeptical look, he withdrew it and folded his arms.

“I don’t blame ya. Always thought there was some weird magic in these tombs. Are you  _ sure _ you’re alright? Your heart’s been hammerin’ something fierce since you started starin’ at nothing.”

“How… how did you know that?”

Farkas tugged on his earlobe. “It’s pretty loud you know.”

“…Those are some, ah, big ears you have there.”

“All the better to hear you with, my dear.” He gave her a sharp toothed grin. “Well if you’re good to go, let’s get Wuuthrad and hoof it. I’m hungry.” 

######   
  
The duo started their journey back to Whiterun under a canopy of glittering stars. Each was in agreement that a bath and a bed at home were too appealing to pass up and so they elected to travel rather than camp and wait for dawn to break. Too much had happened in the crypt and both were eager to put it behind them.

“Now I wish we’d split the purse for some horses,” Farkas yawned as they passed the nearest watchtower. 

“We’re nearly there.” Ismene patted his arm consolingly, nodding to a guard that walked by. “Don’t fall asleep on your feet, I won’t be able to carry you.”

“Not even just a little nap? I won’t take—huh?” He stopped in his tracks, lifting his head and scanning the dark sky.

“What?”

“Thought I heard somethin’ comin’ from up there.” He pointed overhead, back the way they came. “Kinda sounded like a bear, or a troll but… louder? There it is again!”

This time she heard it. It was no bear, troll, or anything remotely similar. That sound belonged to only one creature.

A dragon.

The distinct tingle of panic raised the hairs on the back of her neck and rigidified all of her muscles. Again? It was too soon! Already the thumping of boots on the road intensified as guards converged, weapons at the ready, a trio of them came and went, duty bound to do battle.

In truth Ismene was torn. The battle-weary part of her screamed to run home as fast as she could and dive under the covers. The vicious, bloodthirsty side that reared its ugly head and forced the  _ Thu’um _ to life gnashed its teeth and roared for her to challenge the dragon. Neither aspect won the decision, for it was bright eyed Farkas that tossed the coin.

“Let’s go help them!”

Balgruuf, she thought wryly, had hit the nail on the head with that one. Given the opportunity Ysgramor himself wouldn’t be able to hold a Companion back from going head to head with a dragon. Not of course, she figured, the legendary warmonger would even try. Sighing in quiet resignation, she readied her bow.

“Yes let’s.”

His greatsword was already in his hands by the time she had even spoken and the two of them charged down the road following the still visible torches held by the guards. The large man hadn’t an ounce of hesitation about him and there was ferocious determination in the way he ran. She hoped some of that courage was transferrable.

By the time they arrived at the jagged section of field, the dragon had already claimed the life of one guard and injured several more. One of the yellow clad Hold defenders called out to them.

“Hail, Companions!” he shouted, releasing an arrow at the beast as it flew by overhead. It was difficult to tell given his mask, but the man did a double take. “The Dragonborn!”

Her teeth ground together at the murmur of wonder the title invoked. She caught Farkas’s puzzled look out the corner of her eye. No, this wouldn’t do at all. Nobody knew for sure if that was true. 

“It sure would be nice if they showed up wouldn’t it!” she said loudly. 

“Never mind that!” another guard hollered, “here it comes again! Die, dragon!”

Taking her cue, she shot at the dragon as it swooped low. It was difficult to ascertain whether or not her arrow landed, but she readied and released another as it wheeled around. It roared and wobbled in the air, taking a sharp and sudden nosedive.

Even before the dust settled the combatants were after it like skeevers on a week old kill. Farkas in particular wove in and out of the clustered guards, slicing every inch of it he could safely reach. Using the cover of the others' hail of arrows from overhead, he ducked underneath the beast as it raised a wing to smack a guard. Releasing a guttural cry of his own, he drove his sword up under the joint and dashed aside, narrowly avoiding being bitten.

The dragon snarled and snapped despite the many blades and arrows that pelted into its hide over and over, and for all their efforts, another one of the guards succumbed to the onslaught. It crawled over its victim, intent on continuing its violent frenzy. It swung its frilled head in time with the swipe of its finned tail, felling the guards in front and behind simultaneously. Those it had missed earned the brunt of its attention now, neck contracting as it took in a great lungful of air.

“ _ Farkas, move! _ ” Ismene cried, abandoning an open shot to race toward him.

“ _ YOL! _ ” the dragon bellowed.

She hastily shoved her poorly defended shield-brother away from the stream of fire, gasping in pain as she felt her shoulder and upper back catch alight. The Companions tumbled away from the fight together in a tangle of limbs and bare steel. Using the momentum to carry herself further, she rolled along the ground to put out her burning armour.

“Watch it, sister!” he growled as he clambered to his feet, helping her roughly to hers. “You could’ve been run through!”

“Don’t worry about that now! When it breathes in like that, get out of its line of sight!” she yelled back, drawing another arrow from her quiver and quickly releasing it into the dragon’s injured wing.

“Yeah, I got  _ that! _ Be more careful, dammit!”

“ _ YOL! _ ” Again, the blazing surge flared to life, loud above the guards’ battle cries.

The first dragon had spoken full sentences, even if she’d been unable to understand it, but Ismene was surprised to clearly hear this word precede its breath attack. It was the same as what she’d learned in the Cairn. Comprehension washed over her, familiar yet alien, feeling rather like having an egg smashed over the top of one’s head.

In the dragon’s Voice she heard  _ fire _ . All at once it was searing heat and the flame itself, but also great plumes of black smoke curling into the sky. It went deeper, feeding her the smell of scorched earth, fear and panic, bubbling flesh and death. Ever further, it was the essence of destruction and burning villages.

Somehow it sounded  _ wrong _ to her, like a misused phrase or an incorrectly pronounced word. She  _ needed _ to correct it, force it to realize its error. Warmth surged up her throat and imbued her body with that unique energy, growing ever hotter until she believed she would be baked from the inside out.

Sprinting back to the dragon, she released the Shout.

“ _ YOL! _ ”

In one word she retorted fire the way  _ she _ saw it. It was a gentle hearth in midwinter to enjoy like a lover’s embrace. It was the dance of embers under a proud night sky, borne of a campfire and the stories shared beside it. She communicated the steady crackle of a cook-fire and what hung over top, merry and domestic, sustaining life in the only way it could.

The physical flame that erupted from her mouth hardly seemed to faze the dragon and she hoped she hadn’t accidentally cauterized its wounds. Instead, it contemplated her, tilting its head and flaring its nostrils. Bulbous eyes blinked lazily as its forked tongue darted in and out of its mouth. 

The moment of hesitation was too long. With a horrible squelch, its head was hacked from its neck by several brutal swings from a heavy greatsword. Panting loudly but grinning like a fool, Farkas gave the severed head a triumphant kick.

“We’re taking this back to Jorrvaskr!” he declared. “Think of the looks on everyone—huh?” Nearly tripping over himself, he scrambled away from the decapitated corpse as its flesh began to peel away in glowing ashen flakes.

Once again the dragon burned and once more its essence filled Ismene with undeniable albeit temporary might. There was no name echoing in her mind, but the blazing heat from the new word, ‘ _ fire _ ,’ now coiled itself around her heart and echoed in her blood as though it had always been. It was far less oppressive than ‘ _ force _ ,’ but it was ubiquitous, lurking in every crease of her skin.

The guards remaining to inspect the skeleton eventually returned to their post, but it wasn’t their reactions she was afraid of. Once the particular high of the dragon soul—for what else could it be—relinquished its hold on her, she could  _ feel  _ Farkas staring at her. 

This wasn’t good at all.   
  
  



	12. The Nature of Companionship

**** “By the Nine, what just happened?!” Farkas exploded, incredulity in every frantic movement of his arms. He pointed from the bare dragon skull to Ismene and back, spluttering. “You… it… was that…!”

“What is it you  _ think _ went on?” she asked quietly, and try as she might she couldn’t keep her voice from cracking. Finally turning to see his slack jawed expression, she wracked her brain to come up with a way to edge away from the topic. The man might be thick as wet clay but he would put two and two together eventually, and even that was too soon for her liking. 

“Well I wouldn’t know where to start,” he faltered, looking a touch unsure of himself. “Are dragons  _ supposed _ to burn up like that?”

“As far as I know.” She flitted around the skeleton, collecting every reusable arrow she could find, ones she’d fired or otherwise. As she touched the bones, she found that they were every bit as hard as the fang had been, and strangely cool under her fingers.

Farkas busied himself with the skull, playing with the still articulated jaw. 

“Oh right I forgot you fought one before, Vilkas told me. Heh, he was spittin’ jealous, you should’ve seen him. I can’t wait to get this thing home and put it on the wall, right beside Wuuthrad.”

She relaxed, glad he had distracted himself. A vindictive smile curled over her lips; she greatly anticipated to see the other twin’s reaction to  _ this _ fight as well. While it was true she hadn’t walked away unscathed yet again, she could forego another visit to Whiterun’s healers and that was a grand victory in her book.

“They’ll be singing songs of  _ ‘Farkas the Dragon-slayer’ _ in no time flat,” she mused, watching him heft the skull. “Let me help you with that.”

He let out a great belly laugh. “I can’t wait! Maybe Mikael’ll belt it out right after that other one,  _ ‘The Dragonborn Comes’ _ ! Oh hey…” He winked at her over the top of his end of the skull. “That’d be a whole set about the Companions. One for me and one for you.”

Ismene nearly dropped her share of the load in shock. 

“Wh- _ what?! _ ” she stammered, apprehension clear on her face. “What do you mean ‘one for me’? I’m—I’m not…” She couldn’t even bring herself to speak the title.

“The guards called you that.” He tilted his head. “And I remember enough of the stories Vignar used to tell me and my brother when we were pups to figure it out. You took its soul, right? That’s what that… uh,” he freed one hand to waggle his fingers, “ _ stuff _ that flew around and went inside was, yeah? On top of that, I’m pretty sure I saw ya breathe fire. That’s the dragon-est thing if I ever seen it.”

Eyes hardening, she looked away and glared at the path ahead of them. Twice now that had happened, and aside from the upwelling of energy every now and again, she didn’t  _ feel _ significantly different. She set her jaw and fell silent as they walked. What could she say? She didn’t know if it was true.

The same whispering that encouraged her to use the Voice spoke up again. It wasn’t a separate entity—she’d flirted with the idea she’d gone mad in her grief—it was entirely her but somehow not. 

‘ _ What more proof do you need? _ ’ it seemed to say, ‘ _ you cannot deny it still. _ ’

“I don’t know.” The words came out as a strangled whisper, in answer to both. “I think—I think it’s…” she swallowed hard, the action feeling as though she’d eaten needles. “I don’t want this! I don’t even know what it  _ means. _ I’m no warrior of great strength! I’m not worthy to share something with people like—people like  _ Tiber Septim! _ I’m—I’m just a glorified  _ sellsword _ and a mediocre one at that.”

“Whoa, whoa, hey—” Farkas interjected. “You’re not  _ that _ bad.”

She scoffed. Tension built in her throat and anxiety constricted her lungs; she could not stop the wave of suppressed fear and hurt that threatened to overwhelm her. Now was not the time to succumb to tears, not in the middle of a field, and not in front of one of the people she desperately wished to keep them hidden from. 

“Not by  _ choice _ . I told you once before: the only reason I even looked twice at Jorrvaskr was because I was broke, desperate, and alone.” Her tone warbled dangerously as she choked back her anger and heartache. “I planned only—only to stay until I was back on my feet, to get back some of what was taken from me. So I would work hard for my coin—and that’s what I did! What I’m  _ still _ doing!” 

Wasn’t the passage of time supposed to heal all wounds? Why couldn’t she stop lamenting what could never be at every turn? Shor’s nails, she had twenty eight winters behind her, she should be taking this with more maturity.

Beside her, now bearing most of the weight between them, he looked chagrined. He shifted his hold on the skull but didn’t stop walking. 

“So we don’t get to keep you after all, huh.” 

The stricken look in his pale blue eyes squeezed at her heart with an unyielding grip far more achingly than her terror or uncertainty ever had. This was what she had wanted to avoid, especially in her early days with the band of warriors. She had tried keeping to herself, but over time and without notice they had each broken through in their own ways. Kodlak with his wisdom, Farkas, Lydia and Ria with their friendship, Athis with his tutelage. Skjor and Aela gave their guidance even when it wasn’t needed or wanted, and Vilkas… Well, she wasn’t sure what to do with him or his mood swings just yet.

But she would be there to find out. Come Oblivion or high water nothing would take them from her. Not again.

“You will,” she murmured. She looked at him, offering a watery smile. “I don’t know how or when but it stopped being about the coin. You all—while it’s not… it’s not the  _ same _ ,” she took a ragged breath, “make me feel like I belong, became a place to be safe. I’m sorry I haven’t given you my full trust.”

Farkas returned her smile. “We’ll keep doing our best to earn it. I know you’ve been a friend to  _ me _ , and that means something. So… even if it turns out you’re  _ not _ the Dragonborn, your secret’s safe with me.” He paused, “I still think you should tell Kodlak. He could help you with all those books and advice.”

Sniffing, Ismene shouldered the piece of the skull she’d allowed to slip from her grasp. She would think about it.

######

  
By the time they finally made it back up the steps of Jorrvaskr, the last echoes of the night were already fading into a new sunrise. There was much they had to discuss with the others, after a well earned rest. It was a challenge to hide the dragon skull until they both had the energy to give the tale it deserved, but they managed before parting ways.

When they came together again, the reaction they received was far from the one they wanted. Instead of shock and awe, whatever else might have been said was snuffed out by none other than Vilkas.

His steel coloured eyes were flinty as he stared Farkas down, and he seemed to be straining to hold himself back. Tension was written in every angle of his body and it bled into the room. If it weren’t for the presence of Athis, Njada and Torvar, he may very well have jumped him.

“Cripes man,  _ relax _ . If the damn things attack that often, you’ll get your chance.” Torvar’s voice was tinny from the tankard he used to cover his grin. 

Vilkas legitimately snarled, limbs quivering ever so slightly. When he opened his mouth to speak, his words were pushed aside in favour of another throaty growl. He stepped menacingly forward, but Skjor’s sudden vice-grip on his upper arms from behind held him in place.

“You’re back I see,” he said pointedly, locking his eye onto Ismene and Farkas. “I think it’s a good idea that we all go pay Kodlak a visit, don’t you think? Tell him how you found the piece of Wuuthrad. You first, pup.” 

Never letting up his hold, he steered his charge downstairs grumbling all the while, followed closely by the rest. Only when they were all before the Harbinger did he drop him.

The effect was immediate. 

“What happened?!” Vilkas bellowed, grabbing fistfuls of his brother’s shirt. “I can smell it on you!  _ Both _ of you!”

Farkas grunted as he twisted free only to hurtle forward and seize him about the neck and shoulders. The two struggled against one another as they wrestled each other to the floor amidst muffled curses and yelps until Kodlak slammed his open palm against his desk.

“Boys!” he roared. The force of his shout sent him into a coughing fit that nearly doubled him over. His grim stare never wavered, however, even through his watery eyes and over the cloth he pressed to his mouth. “This behaviour is unbecoming of both of you! Vilkas,  _ control yourself _ , now. Farkas, explain.”

Righting himself, Farkas rubbed the back of his neck and returned his brother’s withering glare. 

“You didn’t have to attack me,” he grunted. “I transformed, so what? I had to.”

“In front of  _ her! _ ” Vilkas flared up again, throwing an arm out toward Ismene. “What could possibly be so dire that you felt the need to expose us to—to—”

“—The  _ ‘stray’ _ ?” she finished bitterly for him from her place beside Skjor.

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

“Enough!” Kodlak commanded, silencing them. “Please, Farkas, continue.”

“When we got in the Cairn, we saw there were a bunch of dead draugr all over the place, and some stuff got moved around. Didn’t think nothin’ of it so we went on,” he said gruffly. “A broken trap got the better of Ismene here, lockin’ her in a cage, and when I went to go look for a way to get her out I was ambushed. Seven or so to one.”

“Seven to one odds with draugr was enough to release your beast?” 

“Silver Hand.”

The room went deathly quiet, and even the trembling candlelight appeared still. Skjor and Kodlak exchanged stony looks as a silent debate passed between them. 

The Harbinger kneaded his forehead and sighed tiredly, aging a decade in a second.

“This is… troubling news,” he said at last. “You left none standing?”

Pride leaked into Farkas’s voice. “Not a one.”

Ismene took the opportunity to pose the question that had bothered her up until her encounter with the word wall. 

“They don’t know, do they?” she asked, worry lacing her tone. “With the shard of Wuuthrad found there, and it being Ysgramor’s axe…”

“Smells like a trap,” Skjor concluded. 

Kodlak cut back in, “as far as we know, none outside the Circle are aware of our current status. Well, with the exception of one.” He inclined his head meaningfully, prompting all eyes to pull toward her. “I cannot stress enough how important it is for the truth not to leave this room.”

She shuddered under the weight of their attention. She met each of their gazes in turn, finding severity from all but Farkas, who gave her a tiny, encouraging smile. She swallowed, knowing now they could each hear and smell the stress she felt. 

“Of course.”

“Very well. If the three of you don’t mind, I would like to speak with our brave newest alone for a moment.” Kodlak settled deeper into his chair as he waved her forward.

“We’ll need to talk later,” Skjor told him before following Farkas out into the hall.

As he left the room, Vilkas set a lingering stare onto her, with something in it she couldn’t pin down. It held a vaguely predatory quality that sent a tremor through her limbs. 

He didn’t trust her.

She lifted her chin defiantly and sent back a challenge. He could think whatever he liked, it wouldn’t dent her integrity.

Kodlak watched the exchange with mild interest. 

“I see you aren’t letting this bother you much,” he observed, inviting her to sit with him.

“Should it? He was concerned that I would be afraid of him. What I saw him do confirms all of the stories about werewolves granda Ingemar used to tell me. Fearsome and violent, but…” She shrugged with a wry grin. “It’s  _ Farkas _ . I could never find him so, unless of course he became my enemy.”

“And the rest of us?”

“Are you going to attack me, Harbinger?”

Kodlak laughed dryly. “Of course not, child.”

“Then what’s to worry about? If nobody’s been a danger up to this point, it really doesn’t concern me, does it?” She idly rolled one of the beads in her hair between two fingers, trying to appear more nonchalant than she felt. Truth be told she had other, more pressing things to worry about.

She couldn’t get the sensation of the dragon souls out of her thoughts, made much more vivid by the recent second occurrence. Should she tell him? Would he even believe her? He would be fair and understanding about it, most likely, and the opportunity to speak with him was so rare…

Suddenly feeling immensely uncomfortable, she fidgeted in her seat. The pressures of the Voice erupted as though they possessed a will of their own, adding fuel to her ire and were swiftly becoming a dangerously seductive tool to crush her fears. It arose only as she might need, but as she sat there she could still  _ hear _ the warmth of fire. As much as she wished it would go away, she knew it would only get worse. It wasn’t a stretch to picture losing control of it and burning down the building.

That settled it then. As soon as she was able she would seek out the Greybeards, if only that she might carry on with her life. And if it turned out she could never go back to the way she was before, then they would help her get used to it. It wasn’t like she planned on using the power to cause chaos—or at all.

“Are you alright?” Kodlak’s rough voice interrupted her train of thought.

“I’m fine,” she replied slowly, choosing her words carefully. “I might have to… take a leave of absence.” Hurriedly, she added, “It’s unrelated.”

“You need not ask my permission. Each Companion is his or hers to govern. I would however ask that you remain for now, at least until we initiate you fully.”

Her eyebrows went up. “You mean you want me in the Circle? Why?”

He shook his head. “Not quite. As I’m sure you’re aware there is a…  _ prerequisite _ for that title which you lack.”

“I’m not a beast.”

The Harbinger gave her a strange, mildly offended look but nodded. 

“Quite so,” he allowed. “However, you passed your proving and it is time we instate you as a formal member. I hardly think whelp status is fitting for a woman who has slain two dragons.” His gray eyes glittered knowingly.

“It’s not as though I did it by myself,” she mumbled, flushing under the praise. 

“That may be but I was told you fought just as fiercely as one.”

Ismene froze. Farkas, she assumed, had gone to Kodlak some time between their arrival and this meeting but what had he told him exactly? And to have left out his transformation? 

_ He promised not to tell damn it! _

“They’re not something to give quarter to,” she reasoned, clearing her throat. “But I’m learning more about them. It’s the reason I’m going away—to High Hrothgar.”

He was quiet for awhile, peering at her in such a way she swore he was looking through her. 

“I see,” he said at last. “Finally answering the Greybeards’ call are you?”

She sat forward abruptly, gripping the edge of the table tightly. “He  _ did _ tell you!” 

“I was told nothing of the sort.” He replied evenly, not so much as flinching at her outburst.

“Then how? I haven’t—hold on. Tell me what you know.” 

“There are a great many ways to learn things. When one sits and observes, ponders over what they see, realization occurs.” Kodlak paused, inching a book by its corner in a circle. “Rumours are rampant, and you know as well as I do that the town guard likes to talk. However, I accepted nothing I heard as truth until you yourself spoke to me, as you have now.”

She slumped against the back of her chair, folding her arms, eyes narrowed. Really, she was a fool to think news that big would be kept close to the chest. At least Lydia stayed silent, she hoped. 

“I never let anything slip, not once.”

“You didn’t need to.” He tapped the bridge of his nose. “When you first arrived here, I noticed a distinct scent about you, with a…  _ metallic _ quality not unlike the heat of a brazier. It lingered on Farkas when he came to me with his  _ partial _ report early this morning, the same one on the skull you brought home. I had no inkling of what exactly it was until today.”

Face pinching, she fixed him with a guarded stare. 

“You’re telling me I smell of dragons? My you men here sure know how to flatter a girl.” How could it be so? She hadn’t come into direct contact with one until long after she had come to Jorrvaskr. 

Exasperated, he sighed and shook his head, but the slight upturn of his mouth lessened the effect. 

“It grows stronger on occasion, and at the moment it is overpowering, much like the day you assisted with the defeat of the beast at the watchtower. I think you ought to know that I am not the only one who has picked up on this, nor have I alone been bitten by curiosity over it. Concerns, one might call it, have been brought to my attention.”

Serious once more, her disgruntled expression magnified. ‘Curiosity’ was a delicate way to put it and, if her suspicions about the identity of the nosy parties were correct, highly ironic.  _ Let the wolves play their guessing games, _ she thought. Once she climbed the mountain past Ivarstead she could decide for herself what information got shared. 

“I don’t know the full scope of it,” she said, “but whatever’s going on, I’d like this to stay between us. Farkas was witness to some…  _ events _ which so far are inexplicable, and he’s promised to keep them to himself.” What the guards did or said, she now knew, was out of her hands. 

Kodlak gripped her wrist tightly but briefly before reclining once again. 

“You have my word. It would be unfair of me to burden you with our skeletons while being unwilling to shoulder yours. I greatly appreciate your confidence, and I hope you know you can come to me with questions any time.”

#########

  
While Kodlak took Ismene aside for a little heart-to-heart, Vilkas continued to pace the underground corridor. Immediately after being evicted from the Harbinger’s quarters, he had passed Skjor and Aela tucked away off to the side of the hall, speaking in hushed, tense tones. They had quieted as he went by them, but it was the ‘keep walking pup’ from the elder of the two that worried him.

It was one of the guild’s worst kept secrets that the pair spent an abundance of time together beyond the city walls or behind closed doors. Despite the childish speculations and long running bets about what exactly they got up to, the truth was simple. Even through the schism created by Kodlak and the twins’ refusal to shift, they remained adamant about their ‘blessing’ and continued to indulge their beasts.

Now, he wondered, what would they do that the story was out? What would  _ he _ do? His brother was content with whatever promises Ismene had given him, but he wasn’t fully convinced. 

Finally, after being scolded twice by Tilma for ‘wearing holes in the carpets’ he heard the stray emerge into the hall. He turned to watch her approach; she looked troubled and weary. He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder as she trudged by, catching her unawares.

If he had been any less sharp-sensed, he may have earned another punch in the face.

“Don’t touch me!” she hissed, “you don’t just sneak up on someone, dammit! What were you skulking around for anyway?”

“Calm down. I wasn’t  _ skulking _ ,” he insisted, backing away but remaining close enough so she could still hear him. “We need to talk.”

She dragged her open palms over her face and exhaled sharply.

“I already know what you want. I’ll keep my mouth shut like a good girl so you don’t need to strong-arm me.”

He blinked, mouth twitching into a scowl. “That’s it? You’re taking this too casually, I don’t think you understand—”

“Gods alive what would you have me do, cut out my tongue?” she snapped through clenched teeth. “Look. I’ll spell it simply for you: it’s none of my business. People can have their little secrets. As long as none of you go about mauling people in the night for sport I really don’t care.”

“Of course we don’t. We aren’t  _ monsters _ ,” he spat the word venomously, insulted by her blasé attitude. “I need you to take this seriously! Nobody. Can. Know. It would  _ destroy _ us.”

“Has  _ my _ knowing damaged you? Did I go screaming to the Jarl? Have I run for the hills? You’re just going to have to _trust_ me,” she returned coolly. “I can really do without all the,” she flipped her hands between them, “ _ whatever _ this is. In case it’s slipped your notice I haven’t got it out for anyone, not even you.”

He sighed, raking his fingers across his scalp. “We can’t  _ afford _ to be flippant about this matter. The Silver Hand…”

Her defensiveness faded suddenly, replaced by a flash of unease. She gave him a long look that held unexpected sadness, eyes shifting back over his shoulder when he met her gaze. The melancholy expression, short lived though it was, seemed highly out of place on the spitfire woman. It disturbed him more than he thought possible, coming from someone he was used to seeing angry, or detached. 

“I think I understand,” she whispered, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms tightly across her body. “It’s not just about how it would affect the Companions as a faction, is it? If word gets out, they’ll come after you.” A spark relit behind her icy eyes. “I won’t let it happen. I’m going to do what I can to defend these people.”

Something resembling pity tightened his chest at the raw emotion in her voice. What had happened to make her speak so fiercely? Perhaps this was the spirit that had made Kodlak take her in easily as he had. The stray found her honour. She’d passed her proving and perhaps… it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to vouch for her after all.

“You’re finally starting to get what it means to run with us, are you?” For once his voice was devoid of criticism. 

She didn’t smile, but the tension melted out of her frame. “Took me long enough, didn’t it? Maybe now—”

The rest of her sentence was interrupted by an enormous crash from the floor above followed by an unintelligible screech and masculine laughter. They exchanged confused looks before both of them raced toward the stairs. Upon surfacing, they discovered the source of the racket.

At some point that afternoon, the combined forces of Athis, Torvar, and Farkas had attempted to mount the dragon skull on one of the thick crossbeams supporting the lower register of the roof. At some point since then their fittings failed and it fell, pinning Njada on her back between the open jaws. 

“You idiots!” she exploded, red faced, as she tried to pick her way free without getting gouged by the still sharp fangs. “I swear there isn’t a single shred of brains between the three of you!”

“Aw, damn! Sorry!” Farkas was the first to come to her aid, but the mirth he wore took away from his apology. “Hey get over here ya clowns and help me!” 

“I don’t know, mate.” Athis could barely breathe through his own laughter, “I think that’s better looking than how we displayed it.”

“Athis I swear—oof—when I get out of here you are  _ done! _ ”

Standing beside Ismene, Vilkas murmured, “should we assist them?”

She covered her smile with her fingers. “No, no, I think they have it all under control.”

It was no trouble for the two Nords to free their compatriot from the jaws of her skeletal cage, but it left their hands full and unable to prevent her from going after the teasing elf. Curses rippled out of her as she took off, fingers balling into fists. The lithe woman was fast, certainly quicker than the half drunk Dunmer could scramble away.

Athis grabbed hold of the woven table runner as Njada body slammed him to the floor and it went with him, sending tableware both full and empty flying everywhere. A half eaten bowl of stew sailed through the air and upended itself atop her head and though she yelled angrily it didn’t deter her. Spitting obscenities, she clamped her hands around his neck, tightening with every breathless laugh that escaped him.

Soon he had enough of the joke. He tucked his legs in and planted his feet firmly on her stomach, propelling her roughly into a chair with a mighty kick. He cracked his knuckles and advanced on her, but as he was about to knock her into next week, a sharp voice halted their fight.

“Now this is too much ruckus, even for you lot. Would you take it outside?” Tilma had made a timely appearance and she was far from pleased. She stalked toward the assembly, disapproval twisting her normally placid face into a frightening mask. Planting her gnarled hands firmly on her slim hips, she went on, “where did  _ this _ filthy monstrosity come from?”

“Whaddya mean?” Torvar slurred, “Njada’s always been here.” He leaned aside, expecting the butter knife she launched at him.

The angry huff and glare Tilma released, Ismene decided, were far scarier than a dragon and its flaming breath. Even her own mother, particular and draconian as  _ she _ could be, would never compare.

“Come on, help me move that before we all catch the boot,” she whispered to Vilkas, nudging him with an elbow. She crept out of the stairwell while Tilma guilt-tripped the room and the two of them shuffled the dragon skull into the nearest corner as covertly as they were able. 

Farkas blew their cover. 

“Oh no,” he said warningly as he caught them, not an ounce of subtlety in his tone. “I ain’t takin’ the full blame for this. If I’m going down you’re coming with me.”

“No wait—”

“Don’t try to hoard the trophy all for yourself,” he said loudly when the rest were put to work. Mops halted in their wash buckets and dishes ceased clacking as the troublemaking whelps focused on the big man. “I’m the one that cut off its head after all.”

A chill trickled down her spine, feeling like one of the others had dumped their dish water over her head. Only her eyes moved, settling on Tilma’s glacial stare. 

Oh, she was going to  _ kill _ him at the earliest opportunity.

Oddly enough, it was Vilkas who came to the rescue, most likely for his brother’s benefit than hers. 

“That happened yesterday, aye?” he asked, effectively breaking the tension. “When’d you have the opportunity to boil away the flesh? And where would you find a big enough pot?” He wore the inquisitive air well, though it was clear he was ribbing them.

Trust  _ him _ to bring up stupidly inconvenient details, in jest or not. That was still something Ismene had never considered and should have. Naturally she was aware of the true circumstances under which the bones were bare but… She looked quickly at Farkas, who was visibly struggling with an answer.  _ Oh no _ . 

Divines preserve her.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the  _ brains _ of this outfit?” she scoffed, stalling. “‘A big enough pot’, really now… I don’t think it would fit the  _ Skyforge _ .” She was starting to pointlessly babble now, but some of the stress had eased out of Farkas’s face. She felt responsible for putting that on him, and it kept her going. “It was burned, the whole thing, from inside. You’d think all that fire they breathe would have to go  _ somewhere _ when they die.”

“So you fight them twice and suddenly you’re an expert?” His skepticism would have been insulting if she wasn’t lying through her teeth. 

“How else would you explain it then? Go on then, smart one,” she challenged. 

“I’ll admit it  _ sounds _ plausible,” he grunted, surprising her. He ran a hand along the ridged edge of one of the horns with interest, and as he withdrew his touch, curiously rubbed a thin layer of black dust from between his fingers. “I believe I read something about this at one point. I’ll find out what I can to see if we can’t put this to rest.”

_ More like ‘to win the argument’ _ , she thought, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. With any luck, his research would come up dry or at the very least take longer than however much time she needed to get to High Hrothgar. That way, if by some chance he stumbled on the right information she wouldn’t be there to hear him blow the whistle. 

“In the meantime,” Aela announced as she ascended into the room, “we’ve got things to prepare.” She pointed at both brothers. “You two, come with me.”

#######

  
The sky was a perfect blend of reds and yellows, overlooked by a blanket of soft purple through which bright specks shyly peeked as night once again began to fall. It made a rather dramatic backdrop to the members of the Circle and Harbinger, all clutching torches, standing in a wide arc in the training yard. It was this sight Ismene was treated to as she emerged from the hall.

Seeing them all there like that, in full armour, was rather intimidating. A dense mantle of formality blanketed the pavilion like fresh snow. In that moment she could see how they could maintain the reputation they earned in spite of the tomfoolery that went on, unseen by the rest. 

Unconsciously, she squared her shoulders and held her head high as she came to stand before her peers. Abiding a moment of wordless greetings, Kodlak began to speak. 

“It has been quite some time since we last assembled in this manner, but at long last we gather with purpose.” His voice was tired but it carried easily over the yard. “Brothers and Sisters of the Circle, today we welcome a new soul into our mortal fold. This woman has endured, has challenged and has shown her valour. Who will speak for her?”

Silence descended, stretching until someone, probably Skjor judging by the expression he wore, cleared his throat.

“Oh right.” Farkas brought his attention away from the flames he held, to squint at his other palm. “I stand witness for the courage of the soul before us,” he began in a monotone of concentration.

A shared glance passed between speaker and initiate.  _ Even if that soul might not be what we think it is _ , she thought.

Kodlak continued, “Would you raise your shield in her defense?” 

“But I don’t use a—” he winced and snuck another look at his hand. “Err I mean… I would stand at her back, so that the world might never overtake us.”

Even though she knew it was a rehearsed speech, the confidence and sincerity with which he started reciting his lines made her heart swell with fondness. All in all she would never regret walking through the front doors that day.

“Would you raise your sword in her honour?”

“It stands ready to meet the blood of her foes.” 

He nodded approvingly. “And would you raise a mug in her name?”

This time around Farkas smiled broadly and proclaimed, “I would  _ lead _ the song in triumph as our mead hall reveled in her stories!”

“Then the judgement of this Circle is complete.” Kodlak said with finality. “Her heart beats with the fury and courage that have united the Companions since the days of distant green summers. Let it beat with ours, so the mountains may echo and our enemies may tremble at the call.”

Together, the Circle chimed, “it shall be so.”

“It is with pride that I present to you, Ismene Haugen, this blade forged in the fires once stoked by our honoured predecessors,” he stepped forward and gently lay a sheathed sword in her arms, as though it were her newborn. “May it spare your enemies no mercy and grant fortitude to your allies.”

Gooseflesh rose to the surface of her skin as a shiver passed through her. Given the recent chain of events, she had to wonder if those last statements had been chosen deliberately. She couldn’t help letting her eyes drift beyond the walls to see the Throat of the World jutting into the sky, its summit obscured by ever present cloud cover. Calling mountains indeed.

The assembly broke without further pomp or circumstance, torches extinguished, and it was Aela who approached her first. The Huntress slung an arm around her shoulders as Kodlak and Skjor retreated inside. 

“Well how do you feel?” she said casually. “It’s not exactly a grandiose ceremony is it?”

She shrugged. “I think it suits us. Short but it gets the point across. Honestly I would have been satisfied with a cold drink and a ‘welcome to the clan’.” She chuckled, “how long were you practising that speech, Farkas?”

“I only had a couple hours,” he confessed, a lopsided grin stretching his face. He lifted his hand, palm out toward them. Dark smudges scrawled across it. “Vilkas tried helping me memorize it, but in the end I guess I needed an extra  _ hand _ .”

Aela groaned over Ismene’s laughter. 

“Farkas I love you but you’re not at your best when you attempt wit.” She shook her head and released her hold on the younger archer, giving her a significant look. “I think a more…  _ meaningful _ induction is called for, hm?”

“And there will be.” Vilkas, standing on the topmost step, leveled a hard look on Aela, who bristled. A tense beat passed between them, broken by Farkas.

“Damn right!” he boomed, shoving himself amidst the women. He squeezed them both to his sides as he marched the three of them toward the building. “We’re gonna get  _ hammered! _ It’s been a long time since we had an excuse this good.”

“Then you better get in there,” his brother advised with a jerk of his head. “I can already hear the whelps getting a head start.”

He wasn’t wrong. 

There was a competition running for whoever could stack the most bottles on the points of the mounted dragon skull’s fangs before they fell to the floor. The growing pile of colourful glass heaped beneath it on the table pushed against the wall suggested limited success. 

At that time, Ria stood on the tips of her toes trying to balance the bulb of a wine flask next to a precariously placed Honningbrew bottle. The slam of the door behind straggling Farkas sent the bottles rocketing off the jaw, and the woman wobbling off the table.

Scrambling to her feet, she yelled over the laughter, “that doesn’t count! Torvar, you’ve got some empties, give them to me.”

He waved her off. “If you wanna go again, you gotta make yer own tries. It’s a  _ drinkin’ _ game girlie.”

“That’s a creative use for dragon bones I guess,” Ismene mused as she took a seat beside Athis. She uncorked an ale and took a swig. “What are the rules to this game?”

He pulled a piece of parchment closer so she could read it. Written down the left side of the page were the names of everyone in the room, and beside them a small number of tick marks. Unsurprisingly, Torvar’s name bore the most points.

“Empty a drink and try to get as many bottles you can to stay upright on the teeth. They have to stack for five seconds to score,” he explained. “You in?”

Oh she could definitely use a night of silly play.

“Alright,” she nodded, scrawling her name at the bottom of the list with the quill he handed her. She doubted she could drink enough to even catch up but it would be fun to try.

“Add us in too,” Vilkas called from across the hearth, nudging Farkas who sat beside him. “Bring some real skill to the game.”

“Is that a challenge?” Ismene pointed at him, smirking.

“I could beat you in my sleep, but if that’s what you want…”

“Bring it on!” 

Amidst a cheer, she slammed back the rest of her ale. The burn of the alcohol stung the back of her throat all the way to her stomach but she refused to blink away the sensation, enjoying how it overrode the heaviness in her chest. 

She pushed away from the table and sauntered toward the skeletal trophy. Picking out the flattest tooth she could see, she settled the divot on the bottom of the bottle on the point, shifting it until it was level. Stepping back on cautious feet, the others counted down from five.

“…two, one,  _ zero! _ ” 

The second the countdown ended, the bottle fell and smashed.

“That’s a point!” Beaming, she pivoted on her heel to come face to face with both brothers, already waiting in the wings. 

“Beginner’s luck,” Vilkas sniffed, shooing her aside. “Watch how a  _ professional _ handles himself.”

In a stage-whisper, Farkas remarked with a wink, “this is a new game.”

They each found success in their attempts, much to Ria’s vocal dismay.

As the evening wore on and each of them became progressively more intoxicated, fewer and fewer points were won, and finally the game was called.

“Alright, alright, shut it up you drunken louts,” Athis finally hollered over a warbling chorus of  _ ‘Ragnar the Red _ ’ sung by Njada, Aela, and Ria with a baritone inclusion by Farkas, a verse behind. He cleared his throat and held up the tally sheet with a dramatic flourish. 

“In my hands,” he proclaimed, “I hold the keys to your fate, the Master List, that which draws the line between the worthy and the—hey!”

“Give me  _ that _ .” His grandiose speech was cut off by Njada, who marched to his side and yanked the parchment out of his drink slackened grip. “Torvar is the winner with six—” she paused to watch him perform a waist deep bow, lose his balance, and crash to the floor in a snoring heap— “most of you stack up in the middle. Vilkas and Ismene are tied… in last place with a pathetic two points.”

“Ha! I  _ didn’t _ lose!” Ria sang, rising for a jig until she made herself dizzy. 

The results of the game were completely wrong, Ismene was sure of it! She remembered doing it right at least four times! Or was it four times she failed? Or four bottles she drank? Either way she was not ready to give up.

“I demand… a rematch!” she tottered to her feet and planted a fist on her hip. She blinked slowly, rubbing her eyes with the other hand. Did the place start walking? She wondered if they’d all wake up in a different Hold. Giggling, she temporarily forgot what she’d said in favour of imagining Jorrvaskr stomping to Falkreath on gargantuan legs.

“You’re a little too drunk for that,” Aela remarked dryly, not a single syllable out of place. “Can you even walk a straight line?”

She squinted at her. “…No. A tie breaker then! I don’t want to be the last place loser! That’s what  _ he’s _ for.” She pointed at Vilkas. “Up! Let’s go!”

“As if. You're _on_ ,” he slurred, returning the fierce glare he was given by his challenger as he approached her, a noticeable stagger in his step. 

“I’ll make it simple. Each of you put one finger on your nose and hold an ankle with the other hand. The last one standing is the winner,” Farkas barked out, enjoying the show. 

They stared each other down heatedly as they got into position. The rest of them sat, shouting the occasional jeer when either one of them teetered. It wasn’t long until a victor was declared.

Groaning from the ground, Ismene covered her eyes and tried to hold down her stomach. The sudden movement was wreaking havoc on her brain, not to mention the impact her body took on the stone floor. She opened her fingers and peeked up at him. He was frowning? Or was he smiling? It could be either.

“You win…  _ this _ time. I’ll get you yet.” She tilted her head, ignoring how the rough tile scraped her scalp. “You know from this angle, your frown’s upside down. A smile looks good on you. Too bad you’re such a moody bastard.” 

Vilkas hadn’t been smiling as she spoke to him, nor had he been when he reluctantly helped her up. He started to though, as he watched her zigzag toward the stairs muttering about sleep. It evaporated rapidly, however, as he met the glittering stares of his fellows. 

He was going to blame the fluttering in his belly on the alcohol.   
  
  
  



	13. The Nature of Responsibility

**** Two days later Ismene once again found herself ascending the steps to Dragonsreach. With the number of times she’d visited the citadel to collect Lydia since being named Thane, it no longer appeared as daunting. She still took great care to stay out of the Jarl’s attention—and his odd court wizard whose too-focused demeanour unnerved her.

The situation was much the same and by now familiar as she wished a ‘good afternoon’ to those who she passed. She found her faithful sidekick at one of the long tables enjoying lunch and an animated conversation with the Jarl’s brother, Hrongar. 

“…more than ever,” she heard him press. “Especially now that the dragons are a growing problem. We can’t ward off them  _ and _ a Stormcloak attack.”

“I don’t know,” Lydia replied around her food, “I respect his decision to remain neutral. If he picked sides we’d have more to worry about. The feud between the Battle-Borns and Greymanes is tense enough, and if we took on a Legion like General Tullius wants, we’d be torn apart from the inside. On top of that, Clan Greymane is knit kin with the Companions, don’t forget. They might be obligated to take sides.”

Hrongar snorted. “Aye you’ve got a point there, but we can’t sit and wait to be attacked. And your little miss Thane isn’t doing anything to help. Is she going to ever come to her senses and answer the Greybeards? Skyrim needs a Dragonborn, at least to give the rabble some hope.”

A scowl wrote itself across Ismene’s features and her temper spiked. Was this a common point of discussion around here? It was bad enough she got lip from those she lived with; she didn’t need people talking behind her back. Especially not her allies.

“Be quiet Hrongar,” Lydia hissed. “I won’t have you speak about her like that. We don’t know the truth.”

“Nobody’s bothered to find out, either.”

“Then I guess this is everybody’s lucky day,” Ismene said coolly as she approached them. Her frown didn’t ease up seeing Lydia’s back go ramrod straight. “Suppose I should stop  _ ‘selfishly  _ depriving the province,’ hm?”

Hrongar planted his palms on the tabletop and pushed himself out of his chair. 

“It’s about time,” he grunted, folding his arms. “Funny the gods should choose a milk-drinker like you, someone who hides like a coward at the first sign of responsibility. I don’t care what your friends down the hill think. You’ve disrespected your peoples’ traditions and shamed those who came before you.”

Nostrils flaring and teeth grinding, she felt the whispers of ‘ _ fus _ ’ begin to rise into clarity. There was no reason, she reminded herself, to be this upset.  _ Calm down _ . He wasn’t wrong, but at the same time waiting for the strength and nerve to face problems and fears head on wasn’t  _ cowardice _ . It was in the interest of staying alive.

Once the prickling under her skin subsided, she was able to speak again. 

“I didn’t realize they made  _ you _ an authority on these matters,” she said bitingly. “Lydia. Pack a bag with enough supplies for a week long trip, maybe more. We’re out of here so early we’ll beat the Khajiit traders to breakfast. Meet me by the gates at first light.”

“Yes, o-of course!”

Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode out of the hall.

######   
  
With each item she stuffed in her pack, Ismene’s ire steadily transformed into trepidation. There was no turning back now, not after she’d made a spectacle of herself in front of the Jarl’s brother. She rolled the neck of a potion bottle between her fingers, watching her reflection become distorted by the red glass. On the morrow her life would change, but to what end? What would the Greybeards tell her?

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you all morning,” Aela announced herself as she strode into the whelp room. She eyed the half full rucksack. “Going somewhere?” 

“I’ve got some unfinished business I’ve been putting off,” she replied evasively. “The longer you leave things, right?”

Without permission, the Huntress cleared a space on the end of the bed and took a seat. She stared at the younger woman with her sharp silvery-green eyes, a look which raised the fine hairs on the back of Ismene’s neck. Somehow it was easy to see them set in the face of a wolf, and not just because she knew now that Aela  _ was _ one.

“Something you need a hand with? Any of us would be happy to tag along.”

“No!” She cursed internally before composing herself. “I mean, no it’s fine, Lydia is going with me. Nothing special, really. Routine.”

Her gaze didn’t waver, but a subtle frown creased the corners of her mouth. 

“I’ll respect your privacy and won’t ask for details, but do your- and myself a favour and skip the lies,” she said curtly. “I hope you’re not looking for trouble. Remember we can’t bail you out if you don’t let us in.”

“I appreciate the concern,” Ismene’s tone was short, “but can we say I have my reasons and leave it at that? I understand we’re supposed to be a ‘family’ and all, but really, it’s nothing to be concerned about.”  _ Perhaps. I don’t know yet. _

“Alright then, have it your way. Did you get the chance to speak with Skjor in the last few days?” 

“No, I haven’t even seen him.” She tied her bag closed and double checked the knots. “Does he want me to go looking for a piece of Wuuthrad again?”

Aela let out a rich hum. “Not quite. Ordinarily we could let this wait, but I think you should have a chat before you leave. Think of it as… initiation, part two.” She stood and put a hand on her back, directing her toward the door. “He’s in his room now.”

It wasn’t a question, and it didn’t feel like she was being given an option. She let herself be led down the hall and into Skjor’s quarters, an off feeling pooling in her gut. What was wrong with the little ceremony? Was this normal? 

“Ah good,” he addressed the women when Aela closed the door behind them. “You’re elusive when you want to be, I see.”

“I was running errands around town. What’s this all about?” Ismene asked, watching her walk to stand comfortably beside him.

“Getting right into it are you? Just as well. Kodlak’s little speech was a piss-poor excuse for an induction,” he snorted, not sounding pleased in the least. “If you weren't already aware, the twins were the last two to be  _ fully _ instituted, but it appears our Harbinger has decided to  _ alter _ the tradition.”

“What, you mean like he changed up the wording? Like I said, it doesn’t bother me in the least,” she shrugged. 

His eye narrowed. “For starters your plate,” he rapped his knuckles on his cuirass, rattling the wooden dummy it was strapped to, “would have been already made and you would have been wearing it to the ceremony. That’s not important, Eorlund will still do it. No, I’m talking about what  _ wasn’t _ offered to you. Now that you’re one of us, you’ve earned the right to our  _ true _ power.”

Even if Aela hadn’t turned a wild grin onto her, Ismene would have guessed what he meant. She swallowed and looked between them. Was he truly implying…?

“Meet us in the Underforge after dark,” she instructed. “It’ll all be clear then.”

“The which?” Now that was a term she was unfamiliar with. 

“There’s a passage beneath the Skyforge that leads out of the city,” Skjor explained, “a section of the wall will give away if you press it right. Oh and don’t let anybody catch you. Its existence hasn’t reached the Jarl, if you catch my meaning.”

Hand on the doorknob, Ismene paused and threw a look over her shoulder, “there sure are a lot of secrets under this roof.”

“Aye and you should consider yourself lucky to be privy to them. Run along, new-blood.”

#######

  
Worry over the looming journey ahead of her combined with the impending meeting mixed poorly in Ismene’s belly and ruined her ability to do anything but stare blankly into the hearth. She picked at the plate in front of her, hungry but unwilling to eat. She toyed with the idea of retrieving her supplies, grabbing Lydia by the arm and leaving right away, ready or not. This was why she never made up future plans her whole life, she hated sitting and waiting around.

The release of yet another stressful sigh was met with a comment from somewhere behind her.

“If you’ve got this much time on your hands, spar with me,” Vilkas said as he came to rest off to one side.

Her eyebrows went up and she searched the room with exaggerated motions before pointing at herself. 

“Who, me?”

“Do you see anybody  _ else  _ here?” he responded, bringing his sheathed sword down on the floor with a soft  _ thunk _ . “Blinding yourself at the hearthside isn’t helping you to further your goals.”

Her goals? Beyond her impending climb to High Hrothgar, she couldn’t think of anything she wanted to achieve. She was aimless and she knew it, and that’s how she liked things. Even so, her bones were itching for the activity and she followed him out the door into the yard, picking up a training sword on the way. Practise makes perfect, after all.

In the spirit of deja-vu, he unsheathed his blade and commanded, “assume your opening stance.” 

As instructed, she spread her feet shoulder width apart and eased into place her right foot forward, and held her sword up. 

Shaking his head exasperatedly, he moved to her side and nudged her knee with the flat of his weapon. 

“You’re putting too much weight on this leg. You need to stand balanced otherwise you run the risk of your foe overpowering you, especially if they are larger.”

“Alright,” she said hesitantly, adjusting her position until she earned an approving nod. “While that’s alright for defending, I’d rather be ready to move in quickly. Isn’t the goal of fighting to… oh what’s that book called,  _ ‘kill before you’re killed’ _ ?”

“Put a little more logic behind what you do,” he chided, “not everybody you do battle with will have the skill of a dog with a stick in its mouth. By standing that way, yes, you might be able to react more quickly. However: it also tells me that you intend to rush in blindly. If I strike out ahead of you, I could push you to the ground and end your life before you get your wind back.”

She hummed, nodding. “I see.” 

Carefully, she stepped in and out of the altered stance until she could do it without being corrected. 

“That’s better.” He resumed his starting point. “I can see you’ve improved,  _ somewhat _ . The way you hold your sword is good, it will follow your movements tightly.” 

“I’ll make sure to thank Athis for that. Are you ready?”

He didn’t bother replying, rather he sprung into action. She was forced to bring up her sword in an underhand arc to prevent his from slicing her in two. He was right, she noted, if she had been leaning as she was wont to do, she would be on the ground instead of pushing him back. She withdrew her blade before he could twist it out of her hands, then immediately swung high. Her assault was deftly stopped, but instead of standing still to block, he stepped into her blow with one of his own. The superior power behind his attack forced her arm completely aside. Before she could blink he was inside her guard, practise sword pressed to the nape of her neck.

That advice hadn’t changed anything at all, she thought, frustrated. She’d been defeated just as easily as the first time they’d fought. She was pleased with the lack of insult, though.

“I thought that stance change was supposed to help me,” she complained. 

“And it did,” he confirmed. “did you not notice how much faster you were able to recover from the opening strike? You are still holding your sword, as well.”

“That doesn’t mean much. I  _ lost _ , and losing means death.” 

“Yes,” he agreed, settling into position again. “But that’s not what we’re doing here. There’s a time for victory and a time for practise. Mistakes are foolish only if you fail to learn from them. Tell me, is this how you fight when a bandit comes in too close for your bow?”

“Well, no,” she admitted, frowning. “That’s more about survival than technique. I can’t say I stop to think about where I put my feet, but rather where my blade will end up—or theirs.”

“Is that how you were thinking just now? What were you focusing on?” 

“I was…” she trailed off. She’d been  _ reacting _ in that bout more than anything else. “I wasn’t. After your first move I was more concerned that my posture succeeded.”

“As I thought. Now come at me again, but this time pretend I’m a vagrant you want to cut down.”

“Are—are you sure?” Certainly they’d had their share of disagreements, but she’d never harboured thoughts of trying to  _ kill _ him. He was annoying, yes, but not enough for that to go on.

“Just do it and stop questioning me, you damn coward! It’s not as though you could actually  _ hurt _ me, as we’ve already seen!” 

The barb stuck deeper than it really should have and it chafed at her nerves. Irritated by the jab, she launched herself forward and lashed out. Placing fury-fueled energy behind the thrust, she celebrated inwardly at how she made him teeter back, and the way his eyes widened. The attack had been blocked, yes, but she was already on the move for another by the time he made to parry. 

Striking with a backhanded swing leveled at his head, she pulled away at the last second and pivoted under his high interception. Flowing through her own backward motion, she tightened her grip and drove her sword toward him. A loud screech split the quiet yard as the blades met. Before she could turn back and go again, he reached out and grabbed her in a headlock and carefully slid his sword up under her armpit, mimicry of a stabbing.

He was so close in that moment she found it difficult to concentrate on the blade digging into her side over the uncomfortable, foreign heat at her back. They were nearly cheek to cheek in the awkward position, and she felt like she was being trapped. Instead of jamming her elbow into his belly like she wanted, she jostled her shoulders and stepped out of his reach. She coughed and vigorously rubbed a sweaty palm over the phantom prickling in the back of her neck. 

“So,” she started, “was that any better?”

“Hm? What? Oh,” he stumbled, “I—you did as asked at least.”

“I ‘did as asked’?” she repeated, sticking her sword in the dirt, “I almost had you until you pulled that trick.”

“I know what I said. You followed through on instruction and achieved a different result. That’s what you do while  _ learning _ . The bout was better, at least, yes.”

Arming herself again, Ismene nodded slowly. When it came to combat, she knew her tendency was to repeat what she saw. Trying to pull off some of Kjell’s tactics months ago when she’d been forced into battle had done the job but could have ended badly for her. She had to make herself forget, and hopefully the impromptu lesson would start her down that path.

They continued to train until evening fell and the sun began to sink below Whiterun’s western walls. It was Vilkas who called for them to stop by making a final observation.

“I can see a bit of the others’ method in your stance, and in the way you move. I advise caution with how much you emulate,” he said, “Not one of you is especially similar physically, nor are you of one mind. Take Farkas and Athis for example. One is mighty but slow, and the other nimble and fragile. They each think their way of inflicting damage is better, and it may be so, but only because it’s their  _ own _ performance at its best. It wouldn’t work if they switched strategies.”

He, Ismene thought, had been far more obliging and  _ patient  _ in one afternoon than he had in the entire time she had been there. Frankly, she was suspicious of it. As they took a rest under the veranda she voiced her concern.

“What’s with the sudden charity?” she asked, carefully keeping her tone neutral. “I thought you despised me.”

“I did,” he answered bluntly. “For a long time I wanted you gone. Something was just…  _ wrong _ that day about you, a stranger coming into our home who smelled of fire and blood. You didn’t belong, and I truly believed that you were intruding.”

“So you decided to deliberately antagonize me because you were feeling a little  _ territorial? _ ” Her nostrils flared as her temper did. The torchlight glinted in her eyes for the briefest second, staining them gold.

“I was wrong. I should not have doubted Kodlak’s judgement so adamantly.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” she said sternly. “The way you’ve treated me is completely unfair.”

“It’s not as if you have been entirely innocent yourself,” he snapped defensively. 

“What did you expect me to do, sit and choke down your attitude?” she fired back. “You’re not as intimidating as Ria makes you out to be and it’ll take more than your barking to drive me off, you arrogant  _ mutt _ .”

Setting his jaw, he growled, “I’m trying to  _ apologize _ to you,  _ stray! _ ”

“Try harder. My forgiveness costs more than a few sweet words.”

“I  _ realize  _ that. Why do you think I brought you out here today?” He gave a long-suffering sigh and dragged his fingers through his hair. “You said you wanted to protect this family, and it was those words that cemented my decision to try improving with you. Or were you not being serious?”

Rapidly cooling anger left a bitter taste in her mouth, scaly like scorched wood after a fire. She hated how easily the pain of loss was allowed to resurface. She glared at her hands, furious with herself for continuing to dwell on it. She needed to turn it into resolve, funnel it toward determination to never let the world tear someone she cared about away from her, ever again. How many times was she going to have to tell herself that before it happened?

“Of course I was,” she said, steel lining her voice. “I’m not about to let anyone get hurt if I have the ability to do so.”

His scowl lifted into a sharp grin and he lifted a hand, holding it out to her. 

“Then we have an accord, you and I. We will work together.”

She looked briefly at his outstretched palm before slipping her fingers into his and squeezing. If anything it might put an end to her headaches.

“It’s a  _ truce _ .” 

“Heh. Good enough.”

######

  
Later, under the cover of darkness, Ismene quietly left her bed and tiptoed out of the whelp room, careful not to wake any of the others. It would be a miracle to hear much of anything over Torvar’s snoring on the other side of the partition, but she couldn’t take the chance. Call her paranoid, but she couldn’t lie to an inquiry from one of them in good faith. Not convincingly, anyway.

Wary of a squeaking floorboard or a groaning hinge, she crept across the main hall around the dying hearth and out the back doors. Sticking close to the side of the building, she watched for the wavering light of torch-bearing guards on patrol. As she rounded the last corner toward the Underforge, she nearly collided with one.

“Hail, Companion,” he greeted her. “You’re out a bit late, aren’t you?”

_ Oh mind your own business! _ she thought, grimacing. The cogs in her brain conveniently ground to a halt as she tried to come up with a plausible excuse.

“Out for a moonlight walk,” she lied, “it’s a nice night for this time of year, isn't it?”

The guard stared, the deep holes in his mask boring into her, his scrutiny making her palms itchy. 

“It appeared as though you were creeping around… Are you looking for something?”

“Y-yes! I, ah… was taking the dog out and he, um, ran off.” She cringed and apologized to Bowin beyond the grave.

The guard, however, nodded. 

“Good. Get that noisy hound out for some exercise. Maybe that will stop the howling we can hear across the city and put an end to the complaints,” he said gruffly. “Now which way did he go? I’ll help you look.”

What howling? They didn’t even  _ have _ a dog… oh no, wait, yes they did. Five of them in fact. She had to stop herself from laughing at the mental image of putting a pack of werewolves on leads and taking them for a jaunt around Whiterun. 

“Yes thank you! I’d be terribly upset if he escaped,” she simpered, pressing a palm to her chest and gently laying the other on the guard’s arm. She smiled genuinely then, seeing his back stiffen and chest puff out. “I think he went that way…”

“Not to worry, miss,” he promised, “your pup will be home before you know it. What did you say his name was?”

Hating herself for the depth of this particular falsehood, she muttered, “Bow-in-Teeth. ‘Bowin’ for short. He’s a… stubborn one.”

“Very well. I’ll circle around behind the Bannered Mare and back up by the Gildergreen,” he informed her before walking back the way Ismene had come from. As he rounded the corner, she heard him whistle, “BOW-IN-TEETH! Bowin! Here boy!”

Not wasting the opportunity, she slipped away and pushed her way through the wall beneath the Underforge.

She was met with a sight that she was ashamed to be surprised to see. There, standing behind an ornate stone basin under a beam of moonlight was Skjor, and beside him a werewolf. She wasn’t as tall as Farkas had been, but her lithe form was no less striking. Glossy, rust coloured fur covered her entire body save for the patches of creamy white on her belly and chin. Silver-green eyes fell on her and her maw opened into a fang-filled grin.

“There you are, finally,” he rasped, annoyance in his tone. “What kept you?”

Unable to break eye contact with the wolf, Ismene replied, “I was held up by a guard who was sniffing around the yard. Now he’s off calling for a dead dog.”

“...Right. Let’s get this over with shall we? I’ll assume you recognize Aela, even in this form. Lucky for you, she volunteered to be your forebear, meaning that it will be from her blood that your beast is born.”

“My what?” she said dully. So it was true then? They were trying to turn her into a werewolf too. Why was that, if the  _ Harbinger _ had an issue with Farkas simply transforming? Was it just because he blew the secret? She recalled the conversation she’d overheard between Kodlak and Vilkas on her first day.

_ “…The call is becoming too strong. I don’t know how much longer I can hold out.” _

_ “We must resist if we want the results we desire so.” _

Suddenly, it all made sense. Those words, the tension that day, the lack of outright offer, and the need to keep this night quiet. Kodlak didn’t  _ want _ anyone to use the beast powers, nor for them to give it to her, and some obeyed him. But why?

Skjor rubbed a thumb over his forehead. 

“Do I really need to explain this to you, girl? We want you to join our pack, and this is the only way to do it. This is the  _ real _ initiation.”

“I…” she didn’t know how to respond. Surely it would make her far stronger, but… “What about the Silver Hand?”

At the mention of the band, Aela let out a thunderous snarl. 

“They won’t be a problem,” he assured. 

“Well, if I become a beast too, won’t they come after me? I don’t want to have a target on my back.”

“What makes you think there isn’t already?” Skjor’s tone became angry, “thanks to our foolhardy brother Farkas, they know for certain there is at least one werewolf in Jorrvaskr. And, since they saw you associate with him, you’re no better even without the blood. They’re like the Vigil of Stendarr that way. Anything to do with the beasts they seek to destroy.”

“Funny you should mention the Vigilants,” she said sharply. “You have to watch for them, too, being a Hound of Hircine and all.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s right. Done your research have you?”

“Not especially,” she answered carefully. “My grandfather, one of the best hunters out of Haafingar, was a… follower of that particular Prince.” It had been the reason her mother was so against Ismene learning from the man, despite him being her own father. “He was the one who tried for years to create a formal Hunter’s Guild down in Falkreath. Anyway, he knew a lot of beast-lore.”

“I don’t need to explain about the Hunting Grounds then do I?” Skjor picked at the point of the knife in his hand. 

She shrugged. “No, I understand that part. He spoke about it like it’s paradise. At one point I might have agreed.”

Both werewolves, one transformed and one not, looked at her. 

“‘At one point’?” he parroted.

“I wanted nothing more than to be as good as Granda,” she went on. Her heart squeezed in nostalgia that was laced with sorrow. “I loved it. But now, without my boys… that life is over.”

“You could have it again, but with us at your side,” he offered softly amid an eager chuff from Aela. “Even beyond. The pack’s bond runs deep.”

In reality becoming a werewolf held very little practical appeal for her, but Skjor had cut straight to the only thing that could possibly sell it. And yet… it was a monumental responsibility, one she was not ready for.

“Let me think about it.”

Pausing in the midst of raising his knife to Aela’s willing arm, Skjor’s face was bewildered. On such a serious man, the expression was unfittingly comical in the moment.

“What?” he blurted, lowering the blade with clear reluctance. “How much more convincing could you possibly need? You want to be one of us, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, don’t get me wrong,” she said hastily, shaking her head. “But this isn’t something to take recklessly, getting involved with a Daedra… Didn’t  _ you _ need time?”

“No I didn’t,” he said matter-of-factly, “but things were different then. I knew what I was getting into and was prepared for all to come. Alright, pup. Have it your way, but it goes without saying that this doesn’t get shared with anyone else, Circle or not.”

That made her wary. She planned on hearing opinions from the others, and perhaps further information on the capabilities of a werewolf, but to be forbidden from doing so? Something seemed incredibly off here. Skjor, and perhaps Aela, was trying to prevent others from swaying her decision and she wanted to know why.

#########

  
Ismene was awake the following morning long before she’d planned to be. Of course, saying she’d actually slept at all was overstating things. The sky was slowly taking on the first hints of dawn when she’d had enough of tossing and turning, shying out of inky black into dark blue.

When she’d weighed down her floating stomach with food and set to leave, the sound of footsteps had her turning back around.

“Kodlak?” she questioned, surprised to see him. “You’re up early. Are you feeling okay? Can I get something for you?”

He chuckled. “At ease, youngling. I simply came to wish you luck on your journey.”

The simple well-wishing meant a great deal to her, but the fact that he, in his condition, had made a point of rising to see her go gave her more courage than she thought possible. It also made her realize how little faith she had actually placed in these people, and by extension, herself.

Breath hitching, she murmured, “thank you. I’m sure I’ll need it.”

Wetness burbled in Kodlak’s throat as he coughed. 

“Fear not. Things will work out as they are meant to. You were called for a reason, never forget this. We all believe in you—even if most remain unaware, and will be anxiously awaiting your return.”

Untrusting of her voice and overcome with gratitude, she mutely stepped closer to embrace the old man, a gesture he returned with a crackling laugh.

“I’ll make you proud,” she promised.

“I know it.”   
  
  
  
  



	14. The Nature of Burdens

A bottle exploded against the wall.

"What do you mean  _ they survived? _ " its former holder bellowed at the top of his lungs. "I sent an entire party of some of my best hunters and you stand here telling me that they were no match? That not even one of you buffoons was  _ competent enough _ to slay even one of those hideous creatures that's IN TRAINING?"

"But Krev, they-- _ ack!"  _ The informant's face purpled under the pressure of his hands clamped around her throat. She wheezed again when she was slammed against the same wall.

"Silence!" he roared. "Do none of you understand the kind of danger those monsters present to the world? How they foul this plane with the stench of Daedra?" Though his chokehold prevented her from replying, he repeated, " _ do you?"  _ His grip tightened as he punctuated his words, "because it seems to me that you just. Don't.  _ Care." _

The woman's eyes finally rolled back in her head and she dangled lifelessly in his grasp.

With a sneer, he let the pointless waste of life drop to the floor like refuse. To display his displeasure further, he kicked the corpse. His deep set eyes, narrowed in a glare, cooled the onlookers' judgement of the murder.

"One of you, clean this up," he strode away, "or do I have to do  _ everything _ myself?"

It looked like he would have to cast a few more snares. If he didn't have quality to work with, quantity would have to do.

#####   
  
As planned, Lydia was ready and patiently waiting for Ismene outside of Warmaiden’s as the clouds blushed ahead of the sun. She caught her housecarl stifling a yawn as she walked closer.

“Not keeping you up, am I?” she joked, giggling as Lydia clumsily snapped to attention.

“No, of course not!” she stumbled even as she blinked blearily.

“Relax,” she smiled as they passed through the gates, “I was only teasing you.”

“In that case, yes you are.” She didn’t bother hiding the next yawn that cracked her jaw, or the laborious stretch creaking her armour. “Why did we need to leave this early? High Hrothgar isn’t going anywhere…”

Nodding to a Khajiit caravan follower who greeted them, Ismene replied, “the sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave. This isn’t exactly something I’ve been looking forward to.”

“I thought so,” Lydia said, disappointed, “and I’m a little sorry to hear it. I could name a dozen warriors who would give up their right arm to have this chance. Half of them share a roof with you.”

“Then by all means!” Irritation tightened her ribs. “Let’s go back and haul them out of bed and drag them up the mountain with us. Give the Greybeards a decent selection.” She flinched at the harshness in her own tone. “I’m sorry. That… came out wrong.”

Lydia shook her head dismissively, though she gave her a hard eyed glance. 

“Regardless of what the bards say, I doubt all hero types took to beast slaying and maiden rescuing with relish,” the elder of the pair went on. Her voice took on a dreamy quality. “But can’t you imagine yourself being able to slay a dragon effortlessly? Or having people tremble at the sound of your name?”

Ask her that eight months ago and Ismene would have laughed until she cried. Now though? While it was true the prospect of whatever destiny lay ahead of her as Dragonborn (if that really was the case) kept her up at night, she couldn’t say she wouldn’t like to  _ help _ deal with the dragons. After all, she’d come out on top of two battles already, how bad could it be? She was still a hunter, and they were still animals.

Weren't they?

“I don’t know,” she mused honestly as the two of them boarded the carriage outside Whiterun’s stables. “People underestimate those without reputations, and I rather like the element of surprise. A big bold entrance and a well known name earns enemies.”

As he cracked the reins, the driver quipped, “that’s a wise a thought as any miss, but you don’t hear many folk saying they’d take on someone like…” he shuddered, “oh, say, Ulfric Stormcloak without at  _ least _ a couple drinks in them. Fear can keep men at bay too.”

Lydia settled comfortably on the bench, leaning back on the sturdy railing and closing her eyes. 

“It’s too early to debate,” she complained, “wake me when we get there, alright?”

“Best pray for a trouble free ride then,” the driver said over the accelerated pounding of his horse’s hooves and Ismene’s laugh.

  
########

  
Pray they did, and so found themselves in luck’s favour; not a bandit or other such vagrant troubled their journey. The odd brave pair of wolves, however, met a swift end via an arrow to the brain or trampled beneath the horse they harassed. The driver let them off with thanks and well-wishing as Ivarstead’s bridge came into sight.

Immediately the duo was set upon by a panting, red-faced man. He skidded to a halt in front of them, bending at the waist and planting his hands on his knees. His hair clung tightly to his scalp, plastered there by copious amounts of sweat.

“Been… looking for you,” he wheezed, “Got—letter. Give me… a moment.”

The women exchanged bemused looks, but waited for him to catch his breath.

At last, “it’s addressed to you,” he stuffed a creased, slightly damp envelope stamped with the bear of Eastmarch into Ismene’s hands, “from Ralof of Riverwood. He sends his sincerest apologies for not having written sooner. Busy with the war efforts he said.” He squinted, mouthing  _ ‘think I got that right’ _ under his breath before turning on his heel and dashing into town without another word.

“Well that was… something,” Lydia drawled after the winded courier was out of sight.

“Honestly I have no idea how they do it. They must get trained at Winterhold,” Ismene remarked, frowning at the letter she held. Guilt wove a knot in her guts and tied it tightly. She hadn’t thought much about Ralof since the last time she saw him, and after all he’d done for her…

Carefully tucking the unopened letter into her pouch, she resolved to start keeping in touch with the errant rebel soldier. It was high time she start better appreciating the people who had stepped in to fill her suddenly empty life.

Overhead, the distant peak of the Throat of the World was obscured by rolling clouds too enamoured with the frigid air to sink. Violet clad guards stalked the lonely road bisecting the town, protecting residents that watched the travelling women with open curiosity. Water rushing over rapids eroded to a razor edge pushed the faithful mill wheel even as its operator headed in for the evening.

Ivarstead as a whole, she observed, had not changed a whit since the last she’d seen it. Sleepy and cozy though it was, she liked the one-horse village. She’d enjoyed it even more, though, when it had provided a much needed rest for a trio of weary hunters. Pushing aside the thought as she did to the door of the Vilemyr Inn, she hoped nobody would ask too many questions about the missing parts of that troupe.

Inside, two fur clad men sat huddled together in chairs beside the fire pit while the innkeeper and young bard kept their distance. One of the men looked up and over his comrade’s shoulder as they passed. He nudged his elbow and pointed, grinning crookedly, unseen by either.

“Busy night for you, Wilhelm?” she said breezily as they approached him at his counter. “Good to see you, Lynly.” 

“Now there’s a familiar face,” the balding man chortled. “Though you’ll have to forgive an old man’s memory, I can’t put a name to it.”

“It’s  _ Ismene _ , and you’ve said that each time I ever came here,” she clicked her tongue. “I’ll let you off this time, since I do have an introduction to make. This is Lydia, my hou--my sister.” There was no need to tell him she was a Thane, really. She doubted the title held much weight out there anyway.

“It’s my pleasure to meet you, miss Lydia, and ahh! Now I remember. I’m surprised you haven’t any wares to push,” he said warmly, taking her hand in a firm shake. “Glad though I am to see you, I still hope you’re here for a room. Less and less people out traveling, what with the dragons afoot. Or a- _ wing _ if the tales are true.”

“Of course,” she said, already clinking her coins to the wood. “We’ll need the rest. Big day ahead. We’re taking the Steps.”

Wilhelm gathered up the money, speaking as he did, giving her a curious look, “is that right? Any particular reason for doing so? If I recall correctly, you never expressed interest in such a thing before. Or are you here hoping to get a glimpse of the Dragonborn?”

The Dragonborn? Now that was interesting. Ismene was curious as to what the image people possessed such a person to look like. Some burly axe-swinging man with more muscle than brains she’d bet. She had to push aside the thought of a gaggle of villagers fawning over Farkas in that role before laughter took her.

“You know how it is,” she carried on airily, “people get to talking about ‘must-do things before you die’ and it’s on the top of the list.”

The bartender nodded sagely as he pressed a key into Ismene’s hand, and one to Lydia.

“Now that’s a story I know well enough to have written it. Half the people coming through here sing the same song, eh Lynly?” He paused then, the wrinkles on his face deepening. “Your partners not agree with you on this? That loud redhead and the Argonian aren’t here to muck up my inn I see.”

“It’s by my request,” Lydia stepped in, seeing all the enthusiasm drain from her Thane’s face. “I was tired of being in Whiterun all the time, so we decided to make the trip together.”

To avoid having the conversation run into awkward territory, they retreated to one of the vacant corners of the room, intent on planning for the climb.

“Thanks for that,” Ismene murmured, rearranging her pack to recount her supplies. “I wouldn’t have known what to say to him.”

“Having to ‘carry your burdens’ doesn’t just mean belongings,” she explained wryly, as though it were obvious. “I should mention it’s also something 'sisters’ do for each other.”

“It means a lot to me that you— _ what?” _ she stopped short when another patron, a tall broad shouldered man with shoulder length ashen-blond hair and a beard to match, sauntered over. 

It was difficult to tell beyond the mottle of scars criss-crossing his face, but he may have winked. He boldly pulled up a chair, straddled it backward and rested his arms on the back.

“Ladies,” he greeted, beckoning his companion over. “Couldn’t help overhearing that you’re taking the Seven Thousand Steps—”

“—and let me guess,” Lydia interrupted, “you want to know if we need a guide.”

“Fenngar, you always blow your best line first.” The second man, stocky and dark haired but shrewd of eye, lightly slapped the first across the shoulders with the back of his hand. 

“Ah, Dronir you old goat. You ain’t helping any either with that ugly mug of yours.”

It was obvious what the two of them were up to; Ismene had seen this kind of act before. Kjell and Leaves-no-Trail had excelled at it. She looked to Lydia, who flicked her eyes skyward, and sat back with her arms crossed and a leg slung over the other. They needed to mind their own damn business.

“Well if you aren’t offering your help, what is it you’re after?” she asked in the most disinterested tone she could muster. 

The scarred man, Fenngar, gave them a grin that was far too wide, displaying a shocking number of molars in it. He didn’t bother to hide the appreciative inspection he set on Lydia, nor the throaty hum that went with it.

“Many people who go up that mountain don’t come back,” he said, unbothered by how she inched away from him. “In case this might be your last night on Nirn, how 'bout we make it a good one?”

At the same time she barked out a firm ‘no’, Ismene snorted derisively. 

“I think that’s a bit of a tall order for you, so we’ll have to decline. Thanks anyway.”

The shorter man, Dronir, laughed openly. “Oh there’s a sharp tongue on that one, Fen. Shame you’re not getting the use out of it you want. I could’ve told you to save your breath.”

He scowled and punched him on the arm, hard. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled, though he slunk across the room, his chortling friend in tow.

“Can’t go anywhere, can you?” Lydia muttered, her disgusted gaze lingering on the men. “The only thing worth looking at between the two of them is their blades.”

“I didn’t see, what are they—” Ismene stopped speaking abruptly when she turned to get a better look at said weapons. Her tongue dried out instantly and the hair on her forearms rose under her bracers. The sword Dronir was now openly inspecting shone brightly in the light of the hearth, brilliant and gleaming white. She had seen that kind before.

Those men were Silver Hand, there was no doubt about it. 

“Shit,” she whispered to herself, biting the inside of her cheek. They must be part of a patrol, or maybe scouts. Were they on someone’s tail? Was it someone she knew? The fact that Skjor was confident the band was aware of the Circle’s status and therefore their identities worried her. Combined, Ismene and Lydia were no doubt a match for them, but starting a fight in the middle of the inn was out of the question, and less than inconspicuous. She had to find that courier and get word to Kodlak, fast.

Heart pounding, she rifled through the bag she’d so carefully fixed, searching for something to write with. 

“Damn it,” she groaned, shooting to her feet. 

“Ismene? What’s the matter?” she heard Lydia call after her.

“Ah it’s alright, I think I lost something on the way,” she lied with a reassuring smile, forcing her voice to stay even. To Wilhelm, she whispered urgently, “I need parchment, a quill, and some ink if you have it to spare. I’ll pay.”

Procuring the items, he waved her off. “No need. Are those men troubling the two of you?”

Glancing up from her writing, hand mid-word, Ismene shook her head and held a finger to her lips. 

  
_ K— _ __   
_ Silver Hand in Ivarstead. _ _   
_ __ I.H.

  
Bidding thanks to Wilhelm, she neatly folded the letter and strode stiffly to the door, catching Lydia’s eye as she went.  _ Great Divines please let the courier still be in town _ , she thought, breaking into a sprint in the direction she remembered him going. She continued along that path, pumping her legs faster the second she heard footsteps hammering behind her.

Then up ahead, lantern light bobbed, attached to the belt of the courier.

“Wait!” she cried, “I have a reply!” 

Slowing to jog in place, he gasped, “let’s go already, I have places to be!”

Hastily she shoved the letter at him, “take that to Kodlak Whitemane in Whiterun, and please hurry!”

Before either of them could go anywhere, both were grabbed from behind. Dronir took the courier by the neck, sword under his chin. The blade was eerily shiny even in the darkness.

“I think we’ll be taking that,” he grunted as the courier struggled. “There’s a good lad. Nothing personal, but if you make a fuss I’ll have to slit your throat. And we don’t want that, hm?”

Meanwhile, Fenngar was not as gentle or polite with the hold he had on Ismene. He crushed her arms to her sides and dug the point of a dagger into her ribs, poised to impale her heart in a single stroke. 

“Oblivion take you,” she snarled. “That’s none of your business!”

“That’s where you’re wrong, girlie,” he sneered, tightening his grip until it was painful. “We know who you are. Dronir here recognized that pretty little head of yours from the description we were given. You’re that bitch from Dustman’s Cairn, the one who lies with those filthy dogs.”

There it was, without a doubt, a confirmation of her suspicions.

“Let go of me!” she choked. It was becoming more and more difficult to breathe. The man’s arm was like a coiling snake ready to crush her. “It  _ was _ a trap, wasn’t it? But he  _ kh _ -killed all of them!”

“Did you  _ really _ think we’d send everyone into that fetid draugr pit?” he spat. “The dog had his day and escaped, but we’ve got his face now. While I’d  _ love _ to let you run and tell them... I think I’d rather mount your head on my wall beside the rest of that flea-bitten trash. But first I’m going to make you wish you’d taken my offer when it was still polite. And then I’m going after your friend. I prefer brunettes anyway.”

“You won’t fucking  _ touch _ her!” Ismene jerked her head back with a roar and smashed it into his face at the same time as she jammed her heel up into his groin. Taking hold of the hand that held the knife at the wrist, she twisted her body and his arm along with it until there was a loud crack.

“Bitch!” he howled, cradling the dislocated limb, “vile beast-whore! Dronir, kill the courier and get her!”

“Got— _ gurk!” _ Dronir’s arms went slack and his eyes rolled white in his head, blood bubbling from between his lips. As the courier stumbled free and his captor fell, Lydia’s boot dislodged her battleaxe from his spine.

Twisting the long handle between her fists, the housecarl advanced on the remaining Silver Hand member, murder in her expression.

Wincing, Fenngar dropped his defunct arm and drew his silver sword. He bellowed angrily and dashed forward to stab Ismene, but she met his charge with a battle cry of her own, catching his blade in her cross guard. With a snap of her wrists, the weapon flew from his hand and clanged to the ground.

_ Rip into him. Take him in your jaws and tear him asunder. _

For the first time, she sank into the blistering torrent that surged through her body. A Shout did not come to her, but her sword cleaved his head from his shoulders with far too much ease. And she didn’t care. She wished he would stand so she could kill him again. 

Feeling detached as her rage faded away, she picked up the silver sword, sheathed it, and handed it to the white-faced courier. 

“Take this along with the letter. Tell him we took care of the problem,” she instructed in his ear.

The man could only nod, hobbling away on legs of jelly. 

“They didn’t hurt you, did they?” she continued, inspecting Lydia in detail. “He said… he was going to.”

“No. I left as soon as they took off after you. Looks like I got here just in time. Who were they?”

She hated having to lie to her, but she also promised to keep the Circle’s secret. Ismene was many things, but a traitor and an oath breaker were not among them.

“Turns out they were bandits,” she sighed tiredly. “They didn’t like how we told them ‘no’ back at the inn. Thought they could just take what they wanted. The poor courier was in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess.”

“Oh,” Lydia said hesitantly, sounding thoroughly disgusted. “And the sword?”

Ismene shrugged and ducked her head sheepishly. She’d seen that?

“Compensation for his troubles, y’know, almost getting killed. It’ll probably be worth some hefty coin,” she fabricated as they left the scene of the attack. “I want to know which plane of Oblivion the town guard’s been holed up in this whole time.”

“That would have been helpful.”

Silence stretched between them as they took a sedate pace back to the Vilemyr. They had felled those men with relative ease, but where had they come from? More importantly, were there more out there, close by?

  
######

  
Teeth chattering violently and eyes squinting against the driving sleet, Ismene pulled her fur-lined cloak tighter around herself. The first legs of the climb had gone smoothly enough—fellow ‘pilgrims’ had been more than willing to lend their aid against wolves lying in wait. Even the sabre cat hadn’t provided anything but a nuisance even up to the point it leapt off the edge of the steep path to its own demise trying to tear out Lydia’s throat.

Then the sunlight had gone away.

The higher they went, the worse the weather became. Wind howled with the fury of a thousand beasts, tearing at their clothes and forcing teary eyes to fold shut against it. Air-sharpened snow stung every inch of uncovered skin like angry bees and the world around them disappeared in a flurry of white.

“Maybe we should find shelter until this blows over!” Lydia’s loud voice, though right next to Ismene’s ear as they walked huddled together, was obscured by the fabric muffling her mouth. 

“Where? We’re on the side of a cliff!”

“Over there! It looks like an overhang, just up ahead!”

Lifting her head back into the wind that instantly took her breath away, Ismene squinted hard. She followed Lydia’s outstretched arm to a blur that was just barely darker than the rest of the landscape. How she could identify the feature at all was a mystery to her, but it was worth a try. 

Stiff, frost hampered legs continued to slog through drifts that stacked halfway to their waists. Slowly but surely they made it together underneath the rocky outcrop that continued up the mountain, opening into a broad floored crevice.

Instantly the whipping snow died off when they passed under it. The air current was still too strong for them to stop and build a fire, but the reprieve from the weather was enough. Remaining shoulder to shoulder, they collapsed as one to the packed ground.

“This is mad,” Ismene breathed, tucking down her chin and retreating further into her hood. “Gods alive you have no idea how glad I am you came with me.”

Lydia shuffled closer to her Thane, trying to steal as much warmth as she could.

“You say that now,” she complained, “I distinctly recall having this argument before. ‘Stay in Whiterun where you’ll be safe’, you said. ‘Hunting bears with shield-siblings isn’t dangerous business’ you told me. Like hell you’re going anywhere without me.”

“Bears were dangerous too. Remember when that one almost pinned poor Ria?”

“It did, but only  _ after _ it died. I think she spent a good half hour throwing up from the stench, and again when you started skinning it.”

Silence reigned after that, each content to catch their breath and warm up. As time passed, Lydia moved less and less, her form slumped completely against Ismene, head lolling on her shoulder. Brief panic seized her. She couldn’t be falling asleep, not in this bitter cold. She might not wake!

She bounced the shoulder Lydia rested against. “Hey, don’t fall asleep on me,” she said, nudging her side with an elbow. “We should get moving.”

At the precise moment she stirred a deep, gnarled noise reverberated off the walls and plucked at the sinew between her joints. 

“I know you’re tired but you don’t have to growl at me.”

“I didn’t.  _ That _ did.”

Visible even against the blinding snow, a hulking form loitered at the mouth of the small tunnel, wide nostrils bringing air into heaving lungs. Yellow-white fur hung in clumps all over its shaggy, muscular body, atop which a misshapen head sat on a thick neck. Under its heavy brow bone glittered three coal black eyes overlooking a mouth filled with dirty, protruding fangs.

It was a frost troll, and it had seen them.

“Divines preserve us,” Ismene squeaked, grabbing hold of Lydia’s arm and heaving them both to their feet. “ _ Run! _ ”

With the troll in hot pursuit, they burst back out into the storm, headed pointedly for the next waystone, tattered flag barely visible. It trailed them doggedly, never slowing as it plowed through the snow effortlessly. No matter how many times they tried to lose it on the branching mountain trails, it found them at every turn. Eventually it nimbly leapt up the rocks and in a flare of speed, vaulted down directly in front of them.

Swearing loudly, Ismene, still tightly holding Lydia’s hand, pivoted sharply and bolted back the direction they’d come. Unfortunately the housecarl in her heavy armour was not as agile. Her foot found a patch of black ice and she fell face first, the momentum ripping her from her grasp.

The frost troll saw the advantage and took it. With a gut-boiling roar, it fell to all fours and bounded at the fallen woman, springing upward. At the peak of its jump, it reared back its meaty fists and slammed them down.

The scream Lydia let out as the monster struck her was cold enough to freeze Ismene’s blood. That was not a sound made by someone who had rolled aside at the last second. Heart thumping wildly, she took her bow from her back and pelted the troll until it gave up on its victim and instead marched menacingly in her direction.

Bloodied and riddled with arrows though it was, the beast was undeterred. It rose to its full height and brayed loudly, beating its chest. It moved at the archer again, but a steel axe to the side of its leg caused it to stumble. Before it could recover, it was sliced again across the whole width of its back.

“Lydia no!” she shrieked, “ _ move! _ ”

Now just as crimson as it was white, the troll pulled its massive hand away and backhanded her. Without wasting a second, it reached out again and…

The world slowed to a crawl around her. Ismene rounded on the beast, embers sparking out from between her teeth, sword in hand and the  _ Thu’um _ shredded out of her chest without warning.

“ _Y_ _ OL! _ ” 

Howling in pain as it burned, the troll gave up on Lydia completely. It loped away, slamming itself into the rocks repeatedly, trying to put out the fire that engulfed its greasy fur. 

Enraged, she sprinted after it. Gripping her sword in both hands, she threw the force of her whole body into the thrust that plunged the weapon up into the troll from navel to throat. Hot blood gushed from the wound as she withdrew it, but still the beast refused to fall.

With the last of its strength, it punched her with dizzying power, sending her hurtling through the air to crash hard in the snow. Pain lanced from her head through her torso and down to her legs from the point of impact. Surely her jaw must have broken from the force of the blow, let alone the landing. Her tongue was swollen and bleeding from where her teeth had pierced it, and it was a miracle her neck hadn’t snapped.

Through wavering vision she saw Lydia’s axe come down viciously at the nape of its thick neck to carve it down toward its hip in an avalanche of gore.

In an instant she hobbled to her side, helping her to stand. 

“Are you okay?” she warbled thickly, blood dribbling from the corner of her mouth. She wiped it off on her glove and spat more crimson onto the pink-stained snow. “When it pummeled you like that I was sure…”

“No, I—” Lydia hissed, clutching her chest. “It definitely broke my ribs. The bruising alone will be horrible. I sure hope the Greybeards know some damn good healing spells.” She smiled weakly. “That was some fight.”

Gaping at her in shock, she awkwardly uncorked the largest health potion she had left and forced it into her hands.

“You’re crazy. You actually  _ enjoyed _ getting beaten to a pulp?”  _ I’m so glad you’re alive _ .

“It’s been a long time since I was in a real battle. Bears and sabre cats stop—ow—doing it after awhile,” Lydia answered after draining the bottle. “I was talking about that Shout too though. Did you actually breathe fire?” 

“Yeah,” she said as they limped together toward the summit, “I guess I did.”

  
######

  
The darkened corridor beyond the ornate iron doors echoed loudly as they closed. Dust filtered through the shafts of light streaming in from narrow windows, swirling like ethereal snowflakes in the stale air. Even the softest footstep was a cacophony in the deafening quiet.

Reverence was thick in the atmosphere of the ancient monastery, still and untouched, unsullied. It was as though time itself came to a halt, if only to preserve what lay within. High Hrothgar, unseen by outsiders in many long years, now hosted them.

Out the corner of her eye, the sudden appearance of four grey robed men startled Ismene. She hadn’t expected them to know they were there, much less come to investigate all at once. 

The Greybeards, showing themselves at last.

The silence was shattered coarsely when one, a crag-faced man with a knotted beard, spoke.

“So, a Dragonborn appears at this moment in the turning of the Age.”   
  
  



	15. Nature of the Voice

“So that’s it then?” Ismene’s question was not posed to the Greybeard who spoke to her, but to Lydia. “He said it, you heard him. We can rest up and go home.”

“I have said nothing of the sort,” the elderly man’s tone was placid, and without rebuke. “I merely made a statement. We do not know if you truly are Dragonborn. We have been listening, and waiting for one to approach us. You are merely the first.”

That wasn’t helpful at all. It sounded to her like he was sidestepping the issue. 

“That’s…” she wavered on the spot, fighting the persistent, throbbing pain in her face. “So you’d say that to _anyone_ who walked through those doors?”

“No,” he answered, pinning her with a crisp look. “Was that not you who Shouted not long ago, on this very mountain?”

She was quiet, but nodded. She knew now that stronger draugr could Shout too, but given that she wasn’t shriveled nor skeletal and decayed, his was a safe guess. 

“Very well, then we shall begin,” he retreated and came to rest in the centre of the illuminated foyer. “Come. Show us your power, let us taste of your Voice.” Seeing the woman falter, he assured, “worry not. Your Shout will not harm us.”

Looking back at Lydia, she said, “you might want to plug your ears though.”

Needing no further cue, the injured housecarl shuffled as quickly as she could off to the side.

Figuring that it would be bad form to shout _fire_ again and risk burning the monastery to the ground, Ismene turned her thoughts inward and called up _force_. It was there in an instant, jubilant on her tongue as though it had been waiting eagerly to be released.

“ _FUS!”_

As expected, the blast struck the man head on, but instead of blowing him completely off his feet, he merely staggered as though she’d punched him in the belly. She was inexplicably _disappointed_ with the result, and felt foolish for truly believing this would hurt someone. She’d keep it in mind for the next time Njada had her on the ground. 

He righted himself with poise, straightening his woolen robe and pulling the fraying shroud back over his head. Tucking his hands into his sleeves, he resumed his place.

“It is good to see that you are finally ready to embrace your gift, Dragonborn. We had begun to fear that perhaps you would not heed our call. Your Voice did not answer, and it was seldom heard.” He, along with the other three men, bowed. “Welcome to High Hrothgar. I am Master Arngeir, I speak for the Greybeards. Now tell me. Why have you come here?”

What did he mean by ‘finally ready’? It couldn’t have been much more than a month since the first dragon was slain.

“‘Why did I come here’?” she repeated, frowning. She brushed away more blood that leaked between her lips. “You called, I answered. What did you mean by ‘embracing my gift’? What exactly am I meant to do with this?”

“That is not necessarily something we can answer. It is not our place to dictate what path you take, only to assist you down whichever you choose for yourself. As you learn and grow, this will become clear to you.”

“Do you have _any_ answers for me?” she asked irritably. Her jaw spiked painfully again and a headache dizzied her. The taste of blood was overwhelming in her mouth and turned her stomach. If this trek was a fruitless endeavor, she would never forgive them, or herself, given Lydia’s injuries.

“We will, if you ask the right questions.”

As soon as she opened her mouth to release an angry retort, the sound of someone hitting the floor caused all heads to turn. Lydia was on her knees, hunched over and holding an arm tightly to her chest. Her face was contorted in pain and a sheen of sweat coated her forehead and dampened her hair.

“Lydia!” In an instant she was at her side, supporting her. To the nearest Greybeard she snapped anxiously, “please tell me you have a room for her, or at least something to heal! That damn frost troll flung her around like a ragdoll.”

“Master Borri, Master Wulfgar!” Arngeir commanded, “please assist the Dragonborn and her companion to the living quarters. Master Einarth, retrieve as many medical supplies as you can. Worry not, she will survive.”

They sprang into action with far more energy than their advanced ages would suggest they had. Two of them gently coaxed Lydia upright, supporting her as fully as they could while they ushered her deeper into the monastery as the third glided away with a whisper of cloth.

Insides hardening, Ismene could not stop the stream of questions as she followed Borri and Wulfgar into a small square room with a single bed, desk, and no windows.

“You can help her, right? She’ll be okay? You don’t think her lung got pierced do you? Is that little bed going to be enough for someone with her injuries? Hey where are you going—” 

Having joined them at some point as the others took their leave, Einarth, from his place kneeling beside Lydia, turned and silenced Ismene with an unwavering stare. He brought a gnarled hand to his face and held a finger to his own lips. From the collection of bottles he’d placed on the desk, he selected a deep purple one and, propping the prone housecarl up with an arm, assisted her in drinking it.

Immediately, the henpecking Dragonborn was at it again. 

“What is that? What did you give her?”

“My Thane,” Lydia’s tired voice shushed her. “They can’t speak to you. I’ll be fine.”

Einarth nodded, looking grateful for her intervention. To Ismene, he jabbed a finger at the bottle and made a series of odd but deliberate gestures with his other hand. When it was clear she didn’t understand his sign language, he bit back a sigh. He pointed at Lydia, pressed his palms together and held the back of his hand to his cheek.

A sleeping potion? Some of her worry abated as she watched him trail a softly glowing palm over Lydia’s torso. She stayed by their side, leaning against the desk until at last he stood. 

He beckoned her closer, and held his hand up to her swollen cheek. Warmth flowed into her from the familiar spell, though his magicka felt distinctly different than Leaves’ had. It was no less welcoming, she thought as her molars realigned themselves and her jaw slowly clicked back into place. She flexed it, finding it seemed to move better than before.

“Thank you.” She returned his nod as she watched him leave. She stayed by the side of the bed long enough to ensure Lydia’s breathing sounded normal. “If you see Tsun, kick him in the balls and come back to us, alright?” 

As she made to go, a dry rasp had her whirling back around. Hands folded over her chest, Lydia had one eye cracked open and a smile played at the corners of her mouth.

“Don’t make me laugh,” she croaked drowsily, “the pain isn’t totally gone yet.”

If she was laughing, then she would be alright, she decided. Shaking her head as she departed, she returned the smile after Lydia turned over and closed the door behind her.

########

The following morning both women joined the Greybeards as they broke their daily bread. It was a thoroughly silent affair, which struck her as awkward in spite of their reputation. She was too accustomed to the noisy, spirited mornings at Jorrvaskr, and the stark contrast made her feel a little homesick for the first time in years.

Later the six of them convened in the entrance hall.

“Without training you have already begun the necessary steps to using the power of the Voice,” Arngeir began, “when you call upon that energy, you are projecting your words into a _Thu’um_ , a Shout. Yesterday you displayed for us the first word of _‘Unrelenting Force_ ,’ and today we shall advance to the second.”

Ismene nodded slowly, so far understanding. She knew well what that felt like, and could sense it burning from her chest into the dark recesses of her mind. 

“The _first_ word?” she questioned, “there are _more?_ ” 

“Each Shout contains three Words of Power. Before we go on with the next, have you any other questions?”

Of course she had. She knew next to nothing about this ability! 

“You mentioned calling on the power. Is it abnormal for it to appear on its own? As in…” she fumbled with her elaboration, “having to concentrate on _not_ using it?”

Arngeir considered her for a moment. 

“That I cannot say for certain,” he said, “it has taken each of us considerable time and effort to learn an ability which is innate to you. This experience may be unique to you as Dragonborn, as the power you wield is in your blood.”

“I was afraid of that,” she sighed. “Is there a way I can, ah, repress it?”

Surprise flitted across his face.

“Why-ever should you wish to do that? It is a gift given to you directly by Akatosh, to deny it would be… unwise.”

“So you won’t tell me how to control it?” Irritation and dread flickered in her breast like a dying flame. “The only time it ever seems to appear is when I’m… _enraged_ . There’s something about it that makes me feel… _violent_. Like I should be out crushing my enemies.”

“And this troubles you enough to shy away from it completely,” his tone was thoughtful. “Should you choose it, we will impart to you teachings from the Way of the Voice. Meditation should help you focus on allying your outward actions to your intentions. However: before you can overcome them, you must first understand that these emotions are indeed a part of you.”

That couldn’t be right! She wasn’t the type to wish annihilation on anything or anyone. Not in that way at the very least. Her uncertainty must have shown, for Arngeir hurried on.

“As I am sure you are aware, a Dragonborn is a mortal born with the blood and soul of a dragon. In addition to the _Thu’um_ , many instincts the dragons possess may also manifest themselves, as what you describe appears to be,” he told her. “I regret to say it is not for me to know the specifics, and in this I cannot help you. Our leader, Paarthurnax, may be able to provide the insight you seek.”

“Well alright then,” she said eagerly, peering around as if expecting to see a fifth man emerge from the gloom, “where is he?”

“Patience, Dragonborn. You have not yet earned the right to speak with him, nor is your Voice strong enough to reach the place where he has secluded himself,” he chastised. “You have much to learn.”

“Oh.” She deflated somewhat. Naturally the solution to her problems wouldn’t be ripe for the picking. Still, if they could teach her how to get to the place she needed to be, she would take in all they had to offer. “What’s this second word then?”

“Let us proceed. The first word, which you already know is _‘fus_ ,’ meaning ‘force.’ The next is _‘ro’_ in the Dragon Tongue, or ‘balance’ as we comprehend it. Master Einarth, if you please.”

Einarth shuffled forward then, and spoke. Though the word came out as a hoarse whisper it sounded like he had stood next to her and screamed.

“ _RO_.”

She recalled the night she and Farkas had fought and killed the second dragon. Upon hearing the word it had Shouted she somehow came to understand it as a _concept_ , in its view. As she sunk into the depths of Einarth’s Voice it happened again.

It was beyond the evenness of weight, or maintaining one’s position in a precarious environment. It wasn’t just achieving spiritual equilibrium either, it was fairness and justice as well. In the single word she could also hear him speak of how all things coexisted harmoniously in nature, working toward a singular purpose.

The new word knit itself into her body as the others had, but rather than overwhelming her with the consistency of its power, it linked freely with _‘fus_ ,’ smoothing it over and giving it direction. There was no impulse to expel the Shout as there had been before. 

“When you are ready, Dragonborn, let us hear your Voice and how it has been augmented by the Word,” Arngeir coached. 

Ismene checked on Lydia, who stood behind her, wide eyed and fascinated. She pantomimed covering her ears, turning back only when she was copied. 

Breathing deeply, she released the Shout. 

“ _FUS RO!”_

“Very good. Again.”

Three more times she was instructed to use the words together and each time they came to her a little easier, felt a little more natural. Had refusing to Shout actually been a detriment to her? 

########

  
Back in Whiterun, tension continued to build in the Companions’ hall, exacerbated by an unexpected package delivered to the Harbinger.

“You wanted to see me?” Skjor announced himself gruffly, stepping into the room.

“Yes, and please close the door behind you.” Kodlak, without looking up from one of the tomes cluttering the surface of his desk, motioned him forward. 

“You’re hitting the books with more fervor than usual,” the younger man observed, taking a seat across from him. Though he personally found the topic distasteful, he inquired out of care for his old friend. “Have you sniffed out a new lead?”

“Unfortunately not.” He let out a whole body sigh, sagging under his exhaustion. “However I have received worrisome news.” He picked up a rag and bent to reach under the table. Straightening, he procured a shimmering silver sword, holding it with the cloth as though it would burn him. “This was sent to me. What do you make of it?”

Skjor bristled noticeably, a snarl overtaking his face. He inched away from the blade. 

“It’s a threat,” he growled. 

“I thought so too, at first,” Kodlak hummed, gingerly putting the sword down onto the floor. “Thankfully this… gift came with a note,” he passed it over, “as a warning.”

“It’s from the rookie?” His eyes narrowed as they glossed over the letter. “There's a lot of blood on this to be a simple heads up.” He folded it over on the crease and tucked it between two books. “Why’s she in Ivarstead? And to have _found_ them there?”

“The circumstances do not correlate,” he put an end to his suspicious train of thought. “Fear not. She is off on a personal errand, but that makes this no less troubling.”

“You think they’re actively bolstering their numbers.”

He nodded slowly. “It’s a possibility we cannot afford to ignore. We know not if their motivations run deeper but we also cannot take the risk of gathering information. Being exposed is not the only danger to us, nor do I believe anymore that it supersedes any others.”

“What ‘motivation’ could possibly matter?” Skjor ground out, “they hunt our kind and that’s all we need to know. We can’t sit around here like rabbits in a trap forever, Kodlak. They’re out there in force and every job one of us takes puts them in harm’s way.”

His thinning hands curled into fists. 

“I know this well, brother,” he rasped. “The only thing that can spare us now is a cure. I am doing all I can.”

Skjor stood fluidly, glare leaving the leaflet only to blaze on the hidden silver sword.

“With all due respect I must once again disagree. If they knew about the shard of Wuuthrad someone out there knows about us. While I wouldn’t put it past Arnbjorn to sell us out, we’re over sealing leaks. We have to do something before it’s too late.”

And he knew just where to start.

########

  
“ _WULD!_ — whoa—ah! Hah! I did it!” 

A round of applause given by one pair of mitten-muffled hands accompanied Ismene, grinning widely as she staggered around the frigid metal gate. It had taken her hours, but she finally succeeded in applying the new Shout Borri taught her— _Whirlwind Sprint_ —and crossed through the bars before they closed.

Hours, deep bruises, a split lip and a twice-healed broken nose aside, she’d done it. Apparently her inborn ability to learn Shouts didn’t extend to putting them to use.

“Congratulations,” Lydia sniffed, pulling her cloak closer to herself. While it had been entertaining to watch her Thane crash into the gates time and time again when she wasn’t tripping herself, after awhile the freezing temperatures had dampened her enthusiasm for the show. 

She rolled her shoulders as she came to rest where Lydia and Arngeir stood, beaming. Thrilled with her well earned success (in her opinion), she was more than eager to continue. The sooner she was stronger, the sooner she could speak with Paarthurnax and put this behind her.

“What’s next? Do you have more Shouts to teach me?”

“Patience, Dragonborn,” Arngeir chastised. “Beware of growing your Voice too quickly. You wish to tune it to a tightly controllable level and doing more at once than you can master will be counterintuitive to your goal. You must walk before you can… _sprint_.”

Quirking an eyebrow, she was left with the distinct impression that he was laughing at her. He was right, though. She couldn’t afford to get ahead of herself and lose sight of what was important. What was the point to learning these things so quickly, if she wasn't going to use them? 

“You told me before the _Thu’um_ used the ‘dragon tongue,’” she pondered as the group started to head inside. “I heard a dragon speak once but the words didn’t do anything special, not until it breathed fire. Which I think it... had to say _‘yol’_ to do, right?”

“Dragons are sapient creatures with mastery of and fondness for speech. A battle between two of them can be considered a deadly argument,” he paused to allow her and Lydia to pass him indoors. “If you wish it, you may take advantage of the resources we offer you in the pursuit of learning this language, _Dovahzul_ , as it is called. Pondering over the meanings and usages of the Words of Power in normal speech may assist you in taming them.”

As she brushed snow off her shoulders and shrugged out of her furs, Ismene frowned darkly. For all the thought she’d spared dragons—which she’d tried to avoid altogether and failed, miserably—she had exclusively assumed they were mere animals. Birds, especially those living in the more temperate provinces of Tamriel, could be taught to mimic speech. This apparently wasn’t the case with the giant reptiles.

They could think, feel, and comprehend the world on a deeper level. That in and of itself was a disconcerting thought for two reasons. Firstly was slaying a creature that may find significant and poignant joy in life, not dissimilar to men and Mer. Secondly was the simple fact that they razed villages and killed people en masse _deliberately_.

She was ‘gifted’ with the blood and soul of one of those murderous beasts. And Aela thought it was a good idea to make her a werewolf on top of that? How would that even work, she wondered.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” she said resolutely. Even if it meant doing something she hated above all else: learning by rote. 

The two women followed dutifully behind Arngeir as he led them deeper into the monastery, past the mess, past the living quarters, finally stopping at the end of a barren hall. He pushed a heavy wooden door bound in well oiled brass hinges and ushered them past it.

Row upon row of bookshelves stuffed to bursting stretched to the rear of the cavernous room, interspersed by a scattering of tables and chairs heaped with rolls of parchment. Thick, richly embroidered tapestries draped over every bare wall and elaborately woven mats muffled the stone floors. 

“Oh wow,” Lydia breathed in awe. “There must be books from the beginning of time in here. How do you maintain them all? There’s only four of you.”

“It is not a simple task,” Arngeir obliged. “However, with fewer fingers handling their pages, it is not as pressing an issue as one might believe. There were… more of us, once. The teachings of Jurgen Windcaller have since lost their appeal to the people of this land, and far fewer possess the temperament to study them.”

_That might have something to do with frost trolls guarding the place_ , Ismene thought. Letting her eyes traipse over the spines of the tomes on the shelf nearest to her—some of which were in languages she didn’t recognize, another question occurred to her. 

“How many students have you had over the more recent decades? Since even… the end of the Great War? Since Ulfric Stormcloak, that is?” she asked, filing away the location of a book called The _Physicalities of Werewolves_ for later. It was common knowledge what that man did with what he learned in those halls.

For the first time, Arngeir’s voice lost its passiveness. 

“That is a name you would do well not to mention under this roof again,” he thundered, vestiges of his _Thu’um_ rattling the shelves near him. “That man is a traitor to the Way and we will not speak of him.”

Blanching, she swallowed hard. “Yes, right. Noted. Um, where do I find the _Dovahzul_ section?”

Composing himself, he answered, “there are a small number of books dedicated to the subject in those stacks.” He pointed to a series of shelves underneath one of the few high windows. “You are fortunate. The men who wrote those were made to piece the lexicon together from various literature that survived the fall of the dragons, for future generations. If you require assistance, Dragonborn, I am readily available.”

After gathering the necessary materials, they took residence at one of the tables. 

“This is kind of exciting,” Lydia observed, unrolling a blank scroll. “Learning a whole new language.”

“You say that now,” Ismene warned, “but after the fifth hour reading over the same words again and again you’ll see. It loses its appeal _real_ fast.” 

“I take it you know this from experience?”

“My mother is an ‘esteemed’ alumnus of the Bards’ College,” she explained with a sigh, rolling a quill between her fingers, “she wanted me to follow in her dainty footsteps, so naturally I was made to sit for hours on end and memorize songs and epic poetry as a girl. I could recite things pretty well at one point, but I’ve forgotten most of it, not that it’s a hard loss.”

“That’s… surprising.” She put on a sly smirk. “Does that mean our Thane the Companion can sing?”

“No,” she snorted with laughter, “not at all. And I don’t play an instrument either. The only strings I’ll ever pluck are attached to a bow. End of story.” 

She peeled open a leather bound book embossed in gold leaf with familiar cuneiform and her face immediately fell. Carefully penned across the pages from cover to cover were innumerable amounts of the dot-and-line characters and very few of the letters she was familiar with. How was she meant to learn from these?

“What the—?” she lifted the book and turned it toward Lydia. “Look at this! Did you find anything remotely useful?”

“Well…” she grimaced, shuddering, “that changes my mind. I was going to try to learn along with you, but maybe I’ll just find something else to read. Try this?”

Ismene took the thinner book and opened to the first page. It was remarkably similar to the kind given to children learning to write. 

“What is this? _‘Dovahzul for Ice-Brains’_?” She exhaled loudly through her nose, “well you’ve got to start somewhere.”

  
#######

  
Many stale hours passed, and the only sounds exchanged between the pair were the scratch of a quill nib or the flick of a turning page. Ismene’s dry eyes swam and she swore she could see the characters behind her eyelids. To her left, Lydia was fast asleep on her folded arms atop the book she had been reading.

Sitting back and staring blankly ahead to rest her vision, she remembered the letter she’d received upon entering Ivarstead. It would be a good break to read something she could actually understand. A slow smile spread across her face as she took in the first words.

  
_Ismene,_

_How have you been holding up? In case the courier forgets to tell you, I sincerely apologize for not writing sooner. While you have crossed my thoughts since our last meeting many months ago, this is the first time I’ve been able to put ink to paper._

_I hope you understand if I’m a little short on news about my affairs. Given what happened at Darkwater Crossing and since, we’ve been advised to keep details about our work to ourselves, even from our families. Telling you even that may be pushing it. Gerdur doesn’t hesitate to let me know what she thinks of that policy, but there isn’t much I can do about it. I’m trying to petition my superiors to allow me to move closer to home but I’m sure you can imagine I’m not the only one. I worry for her, Hod, and my nephew and pray for them every day._

_Unfortunately I haven’t come across your brother yet. He must be stationed somewhere I haven’t been. I hope good luck finds you, and that you are well. It isn’t easy moving on, I know, but stay strong my friend, and let me know what life has thrown your way._

_Thinking of you,_

_Ralof_

  
It was nice, she decided, to have someone check in on her. Not even her family in Solitude kept in touch anymore—though after the multiple, long standing disagreements between them, it wasn’t surprising. 

Ismene truly appreciated Lydia and all she did for her, and her shield-siblings held an important place in her heart, but she needed to make a more conscious effort to involve them in what was going on. Could she overcome her fear of losing them enough to describe what she was, knowing full well that they would want to participate? Someday she might forfeit the choice. Putting trust in them was the best way she could recover. If they knew, maybe it wouldn’t be the end of the world. 

Nodding to herself, she began to write.

  
_Ralof_

_It puts my heart at ease to hear that you’re alright. Staying out of trouble, too I hope. I’ve taken your advice and am doing my best to build a new life._

_I’ve been resting my haunches in Whiterun. This might come as a shock to you, given the sorry state I was in, but I managed to worm my way into the Companions’ ranks. It’s a… rough way to do things, but exciting all the same. There’s a lot of spirit in that bunch and I’m forever grateful they took a chance on a stray dog and gave her bite back. Kodlak Whitemane is every bit as honourable as they say. I’ve resolved to work myself into something to be proud of, so I can make sure I can defend my loved ones if ever they need._

_For whatever reason, Jarl Balgruuf decided to make me a Thane. I haven’t done anything with the title and I probably won’t, but it gave me the chance to make a loyal, steadfast friend. Well, she’s my housecarl, but besides her using my honorific when she’s scolding, I tend to forget that._

_I’m starting to make a routine out of all this. It’s odd and has been hard to get used to, but it’s not unpleasant. Don’t worry too much about Svein—he’s a milk-drinker but one of the luckiest people I know. If you meet him you’ll see what I mean._

_Please be safe,_

_Ismene_

  
Carefully folding the letter into precise halves, she tucked it into an envelope and sealed it with a dab of wax from the half melted candle on the table. She pressed the flat of a loose arrowhead into the seal, thinking she would have to find something recognisable if she was to open post dialogue with Ralof in the future. Or Svein, even though she knew the man wasn’t one for writing.

Perhaps it was better to break the news to her brother in person, given how attached he had been to Kjell once. She shuddered, already picturing his heartbroken face. She pushed the thought away and poked Lydia on the shoulder.

Instantly she sat bolt upright, fumbling for the blade she wasn’t carrying. 

“What! Where are they—oh. I can’t believe I fell asleep,” she said thickly. 

“I think we should go back down to Ivarstead for a bit,” she brandished her letter, “I imagine couriers don’t come up here.”

“Oh gods, yes please. I’m already sick of the gruel they cook.”

########

  
Meanwhile…

  
The back doors of Jorrvaskr opened and slammed shut with a speed and ferocity that rattled every object on the wall. All heads turned to find a startled Ria pressed against them as though to barricade the building with her body alone, chest heaving and whites of her eyes on full display.

“What’s gotten into you?” Aela called from across the room.

“Do _not_ go out there,” she panted, bending ever so slightly to cast a fearful glance out the nearest slim window. 

Beside the Huntress, Skjor rose immediately, palming a knife. He strode around the tables with sure, wide steps though the bored look never left his face. He made a shoo-ing gesture as he ascended the short stair and Ria reluctantly moved aside.

Pausing with his hand on the door, he asked gruffly, “what exactly is the problem? I better not go out here to find any number of pissed off guards or worse— _nothing_. You whelps know well we’re not responsible to bail you out of your own stupidity.”

She quailed under his stern monocular gaze and peered imploringly around him at Aela who simply shrugged. It wasn’t like she was _afraid_ of the older man… well maybe a little. 

“Um…” she bit her cheek and blurted, “a guard just dropped off a really horrible, mean looking dog—” 

His lip curled. “Are you kidding me? A dog. Shor’s bones, grow a damn _spine_ whelp!”

“No you don’t understand!” she wailed, grabbing his sleeve which he promptly yanked from her grip. “It’s huge and mangy and covered in scars—”

“ _Hircine’s hairy ears_. Move, both of you,” Aela huffed, irritated, as she pushed past them and threw open a door. 

Nose to the paving stones immediately beyond the threshold, the aforementioned animal sniffed at the ground and licked at the plates it had knocked off the nearest table. It moved between place settings, paying the gawking Companions no mind at all as it cleaned off every scrap of food it could find. Ria hadn’t exaggerated, the dog was easily the size of a wolf, and its matted black and tan pelt was dirty and mottled with pale scars. One of its tall, pointed ears was half torn off, and the eye on that side appeared as though it had been gouged out.

Aela nudged Skjor. “It looks like you,” she laughed, earning a roll of his eye. 

Its head lifted and it looked their way at the sound of her voice. It sniffed the air, tongue running up over its nose. Its ears folded back and its lips peeled open menacingly then it slunk forward, a low growl rolling deep in its chest. It loosed a single bark and galloped toward them.

Ria shrieked and darted back inside, creating a space between the two Circle members which the dog slipped through after her. In a panic, she raced through the mead hall, flying past tables, a bewildered Vignar, (“slow it down, girl!”) and down the stairs, all while being chased. 

“Go _away!”_ she yelled, dashing down the hall toward Kodlak’s chambers. It was only when she stopped outside the twins’ doors that she realized she was no longer tailed. 

To her utter horror, the panel behind her opened inward without warning to reveal an irate looking Vilkas. Disheveled and having clearly been awakened by Ria’s exclamation, his glower was darker than usual. 

“ _What_ ,” he rasped, voice husky with sleep, “are. You. _Doing_.”

She paled. 

“Oh no,” she breathed. This was so much worse than the dog. 

“Ria!” Aela’s call allowed the girl to slink away from the irate man, and she scampered back toward the whelp room and her timely saviour.

She pointed into the room, “there’s your horrible beast.”

The dog, tail tucked between its legs, had nested itself amongst the blankets of the bed in the far corner. There was a soft crunching sound and upon further inspection—at a distance of course—she discovered that it had a hunting bow clamped firmly in its jaws.

“Oh you get out of here and put that down!” Ria scolded, though a loud _whuff_ from the dog took the wind from her sails. “Ismene’s going to be so mad when she sees this…”

“So you’re going to leave it there to chew through her things?” Aela gave a long suffering sigh. “Where’s that spirit of yours, miss ‘I killed a bear today’? It’s just some gutter mutt, so kill it.”

“M-me?!” she squeaked back. “Well it’s… not hurting anybody—and the guard did say she was looking for it awhile ago?”

“She doesn’t—ah well isn’t that something.” Aela pinched her brow, remembering her excuse from the night in the Underforge. “See if you can clean it up. Think of it as a surprise.” Sighing again, she retreated toward the double doors, muttering to herself.

A long two days passed and the dog did nothing but eat table scraps and lay in the same bed chewing on the same bow until it was lumpy and unrecognizable. Each occupant of those sleeping quarters decided it was someone else’s problem, leaving Tilma to take action. 

She was, frankly, disgusted that nobody had bothered to claim ownership of the dirty beast and therefore she was left to clean up after it. Eventually, with the conscripted assistance of both Farkas and Vilkas, she was able to coax it out of the room with promises of a fresh, whole goat leg. A soapy, shear clashing battle with the mighty beast worthy of song ensued and finally the haggard caretaker was satisfied.

Bathed and clipped with a full belly, the dog was much less hostile to anyone who approached it, though it refused to move from the bundle of furs.  
  
  
  



	16. The Nature of Politics

Another week and a half passed in a monotony of bookwork and frigid sparring sessions, though Ismene felt she had finally obtained a confident grasp on the dragon language alphabet. It still took transcribing the words into what she was used to in order to derive any meaning from them, but it provided extra practise. What she was meant to do with the knowledge now, however, felt far from her reach even still.

In spite of that she was beyond sick of sitting in the Greybeards’ library and was growing tired of the grumbles and complaints from Lydia. The open road beckoned sweetly to her with each passing glance out a window, and in the moments spent looking over the breathtaking, sprawling landscape of Skyrim from the roof of the monastery.

It was past time to leave.

“It is truly unfortunate that you cannot remain,” Arngeir said the morning they set to make the trip back to Whiterun. “Your training is still incomplete, and we have yet to teach you the third Word of Power to  _ Unrelenting Force _ .”

“That slipped my mind,” she admitted, ignoring the look of  _ ‘please no’ _ that crossed Lydia’s face. “Can we do that now, before I go?”

“ _ Patience _ , Dragonborn. We have a final test for you, one that I believe you will prefer over the studies you have undergone.” Arngeir handed her a rolled up parchment. “You are to venture into the ancient ruin known as Ustengrav in order to retrieve an artifact known as the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller.”

Re-rolling the papers, which included a crude drawing of the object, and marking the location on her map, she sagged in relief. Finally, something exciting. Well, as exciting as a ruin could be anyway. Maybe this time it would be draugr free?

Chuckling at the  _ ‘gods be praised’ _ Lydia muttered beside her, she said, “anything we should be aware of?”

He fiddled with the knot in his beard, the corners of his mouth twitching with a suppressed smile. 

“Beware always,” he intoned, “of the undead. Wind guide you.”

  
##########

  
“You… summoned me, Jarl Ulfric?” 

Several days ago Ralof had been tracked down by a courier from Windhelm, his presence requested ‘immediately’. The messenger who had fetched him had been insistent he make the trip with all haste. Whatever the High King to be wanted of him was of notable importance, clearly, but what could he possibly offer? He was just a foot soldier.

Such was why they were now in the Palace of the Kings’ map room behind closed doors instead of the great hall before the throne. As always, Galmar was present, his beady, unblinking eyes fixed in rapt attention on them both like a trained watchdog. 

“Ah, Ralof. The runner found you, good,” Ulfric beckoned him closer. “I wanted to include you in some particularly…  _ concerning _ rumours that have been circulating.”

He blinked, confused. What manner of back fence talk could he possibly be featured in? He made sure he kept his nose clean and his conduct honourable, unlike much of the rabble in the scraped-together army of volunteers. Tavern nights aside. 

“Sir?” 

“Over the past several weeks I have begun to hear whispers involving the Greybeards’ recent…  _ vocalization _ ,” he leaned over the table, hands resting on the surface, his fingers straddling tiny blue and red flags. “More and more do people talk, and they have begun to speak about a Dragonborn appearing. More importantly some believe they know her identity.”

“‘Her’?” Galmar rasped, stepping out of the shadows. “I too have been listening for this information, Ulfric, but never before have I heard of this detail.”

Ralof looked between them. Had he really been taken away from his post just to listen to gossip? That might not be true in the first place? He cleared his throat.

“I hate to say it, but beyond wild mass guessing among my fellows I have learned little,” he confessed. 

“Then you will be just as surprised as I was.” Ulfric stood straight and folded his arms. “Moreso when I tell you that you have been in contact with her.”

Stiffening, his eyes narrowed. Were they intercepting his mail? Paranoid of leaks or not, that was a breach of privacy and trust, full stop. He held his tongue though, waiting for the reveal.

“The woman from Helgen,” the Jarl continued when he said nothing, “who assisted your escape from the dragon.”

His heart leapt into his mouth, dragging his stomach into his chest and driving his lungs to the floor. No, he hadn’t heard of this but he wished he had.  _ Ismene _ , the Dragonborn? It couldn’t be!

“That’s…” he struggled to speak, “are you certain?”

“So far it is merely hearsay,” Ulfric admitted, beginning to pace, “but this description is most common. The rumours originated from the guards in Whiterun and have since spread to the streets of Windhelm. It would be foolish to assume it has gone no further.”

Gouging his nails in the hair on his chin, his mind raced with any number of reasons for what the man was getting at. Galmar, too, seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

“If it’s just a rumour, what do you expect from us?” he asked. 

Ulfric ignored him in favour of staring down Ralof. 

“Can you confirm this?”

There it was. 

“No,” he said firmly. “The only thing she’s told me,” he faltered, not necessarily wanting to divulge the information to his superiors. Against his better judgement and in the interest of walking free he continued. “…Is that she has been taken in by the Companions and that she’s been made Thane by Jarl Balgruuf. Forgive me for overstepping, Jarl Ulfric but why is this important?”

If he took offense to his inquiry he didn’t show it. 

“If it’s true and the woman is in fact Dragonborn, then we need to bring her into our ranks.”

He put all his energy into keeping his face blank. 

“She has told me on several occasions that she isn’t interested. In either side.”

A gleam formed in the Jarl’s eye that Ralof didn’t like. 

“Then we  _ make _ her interested.”

Galmar cut in, “If Balgruuf has added her to his court then he may have already infected her with his neutrality bullshit.”

Ulfric waved him off. 

“Balgruuf the Greater does not worry me, nor do his futile attempts at politics. A step in that direction is still a step away from Tullius and his elven masters. Not, of course, that he is a threat either. It appears trying to have her executed did not aid his cause.”

“It hasn’t pushed her in our favour either,” the bear-clad man grunted.

“No, you are correct. But that’s where you come in, Ralof.  _ You _ are our key. We are stretched thin fighting many fronts, and have little else to spare. Should we acquire the support of a living, breathing legend like that…” he clenched a fist and slammed it against the table, “we will have the Legion and those abominable Thalmor quaking in their boots.”

“What legend?” Ralof demanded, his composure slipping. “You saw her just as well as I did. She was some fly-by-night vagabond wandering the backwoods of Skyrim until the Empire captured her, and _us_. What kind of strength is that?”

As though he was springing a trap, the Jarl grinned. 

“Then we wait. Kodlak Whitemane and his ilk will groom her into a fine warrior, while the Greybeards will build her strength in the Voice,” he said, “you will continue to gain her trust and confidence and the rest will fall into place. I will make this worth your while and spare all I can in favour of your promotion. All I need in return is a name.”

A promotion would earn Ralof a better grade of pay, money he could set aside for the pastoral life he wanted, or to support Gerdur and her family if they fell into hard times. A promotion would get him out of his backwater camp and into a position that could put him closer to home. He almost salivated at the prospect dangling so close to his reach.

A chill that had nothing to do with the barren stone of the city swept into his bones. Divulging this wasn’t…  _ betrayal _ , was it? There was only so much they could do to persuade his friend, right? And she seemed to be a wilful type of person. It wouldn’t matter—the Jarl definitely knew more than he let on; he would need to be careful with what his letters said in the future. He forced the guilt out of his chest as he met Ulfric’s expectant gaze.

“Her name is… Ismene Haugen,” he said woodenly. There. The deed was done, so why did he so instantly regret it? Shouldn’t it be good to have a friend to fight beside, for a cause he so strongly believed in?

He tried not to think about Hadvar.

“That wasn’t so difficult now was it?” Ulfric said smoothly, looking pleased with himself. “Very well. We will prepare your uniform and have it ready as soon as possible, along with your new orders. You are dismissed.”

When the door closed behind the soldier, Galmar spoke up again. 

“That clan name sounds familiar, does it not? I believe there is another among us of the same.”

“Surely you don’t expect me to remember the names of every soldier under my banner, Galmar,” Ulfric sighed. 

“Of course not,” he agreed, “but for some reason it’s familiar to me.”

“Very well, do your research and return to me if it’s of reasonable use. The more connections to the Dragonborn we have, the better. I want this done as peacefully as possible while we are able. We must provide this soon-to-be hero of Skyrim no reason to become an enemy of the ones trying to free our home.”

  
#########

  
Afternoon business was already in full swing by the time Ismene and Lydia trudged into the Plains district of Whiterun, days later. As they passed through, a trio of guards was purposefully leading two traditionally garbed Redguard men past them toward the gate. A fourth advised the women to move along.

“What’s that all about?” she asked a fellow hunter, a Bosmer by the name of Anoriath, as she approached his stall. She'd picked up a few pelts on the way home, and she intended to ask how much he'd pay for them.

“They came here a few days ago,” he answered, mopping flecks of old blood off the counter. “Mostly standing outside of Warmaiden’s bothering people at the gate. Looking for someone, but the details weren’t anything to go on. Guess the Jarl got fed up and kicked them out.”

“If they want help so bad, maybe they should’ve thought about that,” Lydia said disinterestedly, yawning. She tapped her on the shoulder, “I’m going back to my room, come get me when you’re ready to go to Morthal.”

She bid her farewell with a grin and a nod, but before she could get to the stairs to the Wind District, a voice called out her name.

"Ismene!" 

Running down the steps smiling brightly and waving her arms was Lucia. Some of her hair was pulled back in a braid, and it looked like she was wearing a new dress. Had someone taken her in at last?

"Hello Lucia." She couldn't help returning the girl's glowing grin. "It's been awhile, how have you been?"

"I'm okay," she panted, "I saw Miss Lydia and she told me you were back from a big adventure! Did you bring anything home?" The sheen in her eyes betrayed the  _ 'for me' _ she left unsaid.

All she had was the rolled up wolf skin. It gave her an idea, however.

"Nothing exciting, I'm afraid. I can use this fur to make you a nice cloak though, if you want."

"You mean like the one you have? Yeah! Then I can look just like the Dragonborn!"

Blood suddenly freezing, her eyes widened and darted to the nearest people, who had gone on with their day. She put a hand on her small shoulders and guided her back toward the Gildergreen. So Kodlak really was right—the guards had gossiped away her biggest secret. 

Still: "not so loud with that," she scolded quietly. 

"How come? Heimskr always yells that Talos brought us another one in  _ 'our great time of need' _ ." Her imitation of the preacher was spot on, she'd admit. "He didn't believe me when I told him that person is my friend."

Ismene winced. She'd let herself get so caught up in her own drama that she hadn't spent much time with the kid, but it wasn't like she was her guardian. On a personal level, she lacked an example of what good parenting was, so that was probably for the best.

"Just leave him to his special brand of crazy, shall we?" She pulled a face at the man's back as he postulated, bringing a giggle out of Lucia.

"Oh! Listen, listen! I got to eat with the other Companions again. They let me inside the big hall!"

"Really?" That was surprising. She hoped someone responsible had kept an eye on her. No doubt most of them had been utterly wasted. "How'd that go?"

"It was fun. Miss Aela hunted a huge deer, I thought it was a mammoth!" She grinned slyly. "Ooh, Braith was  _ so _ jealous. It was fun. Oh, and! And I got to play with your puppy! Why didn't you tell me you had a dog?"

"My what?"

"Miss Ria said he belongs to you. She was kinda scared of him, which I thought was dumb. He's rough looking but really sweet!" Her lips twitched into a frown and she looked confused. "She said his name was… oh I don't remember, but Mister Skjor said it had something to do with Argonians? That's weird, he's a dog not a lizard-man."

Growing short of breath, her heart thumped wildly. Could it be? She hadn’t actually seen what had happened to Bow-in-Teeth that day, and after so many months it seemed illogical that he would be alive, much less so conveniently on her doorstep. Even so, she couldn’t prevent her hopes from flying straight to Aetherius. 

“Excuse me,” she said breathlessly, shooting to her feet and sprinting toward Jorrvaskr. With every step she took, her pace increased until she was running full-tilt, taking the steps up to the mead hall two at a time. 

Bursting through the doors, she smacked into something wide and solid. A pair of arms encircled her tightly, lifting her off the floor.

“You’re back!” Farkas exclaimed, nearly squeezing all the air out of her with the strength of his embrace. “I was  _ just _ thinkin’ about you, and here you are! Where did you go? Did you fight another dragon? You shoulda told me, I woulda gone with you—”

“Far—Farkas  _ please!” _ she wheezed, trying to squirm out of his hold. When he reluctantly let go of her, she reached up to pat his cheek before quickly hugging him in return. “It’s good to see you too. Where is everyone?”

“Out in the yard,” he answered. “Aela took the girls out on a job near Falkreath though. Oh. That reminds me: there’s a surprise for you downstairs. Close your eyes and let’s go.” He turned her around by the shoulders without waiting for a response and began to frog-march her in the direction of the doors.

“You’re going to push me down there when I can't see?” she ribbed, complying anyway.

“I wouldn’t let you fall,” he promised.

Slowly but surely they descended, careful not to miss a step. It was only when the coolness of the subterranean living quarters washed over her that he let her peek with a flourish.

In the corner bed she’d claimed on her first night a large animal was curled in the bunched up linens, nose tucked under its tail. Its one-and-a-half ears perked forward and its head raised, leveling its single bright gold eye on them. Its nostrils flared and a pink tongue darted over a black muzzle before it let out a loud  _ whuff _ and leapt out of the bed.

Scars or not there was no way she could mistake him. Whether it was the buildup of stress or weariness from the trip to and from the Throat of the World she couldn’t say, but hot tears began to roll down her cheeks of their own accord. She collapsed heavily to her knees, sobbing as Bowin butted his head into her chest, wiggling wildly. 

“ _ Bow-in-Teeth _ , oh my beautiful boy!” she cried, burying her face into his furry neck. “Kyne be praised, you’re  _ alive _ , I can’t believe it! How? How did you find your way back to me, you wonderful beast?”

From the door, Farkas couldn’t keep the grin from his face. He knew tears of absolute joy when he saw them, and it buoyed his heart to see them falling from her eyes. Secretly he’d been hoping he’d be the one to tell her, especially considering how she’d nearly broken down after her trial.

“Ria said a guard brought him around a couple days after you took off,” he said, leaning on the doorframe. “Told us he told her that one responded when he called his name. He was in real bad shape when he showed up here, so Tilma made me n’ Vilkas give him a flea bath. Almost bit his fingers off.”

As if adding to Farkas’s story, Bowin huffed and let his tongue loll, tail wagging contentedly. If a dog could look smug, he certainly did.

“I really owe everyone for this,” she sniffed, a smile lighting up her entire face. “Letting him stay here, I mean.”

“You’ll pay us back in spades, no worries there,” Skjor cut in, poking his head past Farkas. “Good to see you back in one piece, under-dog. Once you’re done with your little reunion, Kodlak wants a word about the gift.”

Farkas’s face fell, but mirth never left him as he pouted, “you brought the old man a present? Did ya get me somethin’ too?”

From behind, Skjor pulled on the bigger man’s ear. 

“How old are you?” he snorted. “Get outside and quit wasting the daylight.”

The three of them parted ways then, with Ismene retreating deeper into the basement. The extra gait plodding along behind her formed a bubble of happiness she had desperately missed. 

As expected, Kodlak was at his desk hard at work when she crossed his threshold. He looked up, and though he smiled, it only increased the depth of the lines in his face.

“Ah,” he greeted, “dare I say a Dragonborn now walks among us?”

Even being reminded of that particular reality didn’t detract from her levity. Humming, she took a seat across from him, tapping the floor to instruct Bowin to lay beside her.

“The esteemed Greybeards seem to think so. They had surprisingly little to say on the matter.” She thought about the  _ Dovahzul _ books stuffed in her pack, and the assignment to Ustengrav. “I think their style of teaching is self-directed,” she added dryly.

It was remarkable how casually she was able to say it, in light of how fervently she’d wished for nobody to know. Perhaps it was how steadfast and wise the Harbinger was, but she wasn’t worried. In fact, it felt as though an oppressive weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

Kodlak chuckled. “It appears you have your work cut out for you. It brings me great joy to see that your venture was fruitful. Perhaps now you can attain some peace of mind.” He tilted his head and gave her a lingering stare. “You have started down a path of considerable strength, but I advise you to keep honour in your actions as you proceed. Power can be incredibly dangerous and it is easy to lose oneself to it.”

Something in his expression and the way he spoke seemed ominous, and carried a sincere warning. She had a feeling he wasn’t only referring to what she  _ was _ , rather what she had been offered to  _ become _ . 

The awakening of her dragon soul wasn’t the same; it wasn’t a separate entity like the wolf spirit was. Those desires of destruction and possession, they were in  _ her _ constitution. It was like Arngeir told her, the Way of the Voice had everything to do with her actions. If she didn’t want to exhibit those things she didn’t have to. 

She hoped she had the willpower to control herself when the time came.

“I understand,” she said quietly. 

He nodded and adjusted himself as he took a quivering breath, trying to suppress another cough. He retrieved a small jingling bundle and placed it on the desk. The cloth unfolded itself to reveal a shimmering silver pendant attached to a fine chain.

“Unfortunately we have matters of a grave nature to discuss. First,” he hovered his hand over the jewelry, “this used to be the blade you sent to me. I had Eorlund melt it down; you may take it as spoils.”

Ismene picked it up by the chain, finding it to be far more solid than it looked. Disgust rolled over her as she recalled the man she had killed, and the threats he had made. She would wear the necklace as a reminder of what was at stake.

_ Threaten my pack and they will find this dog has fangs _ . Glancing back at Kodlak, she was surprised to find his countenance was austere.

“I am grateful for your warning,” he said, “but I need to know what happened. Do you think they were following you?”

“No, they were already at the Vilemyr Inn when Lydia and I arrived,” she replied, tucking the pendant under the collar of her jerkin. “I wouldn’t even have known they were Silver Hand if she hadn’t pointed out their weapons. I left to send that letter, but they came after me.”

Profound concern washed over his face, and he tented his hands under his nose. 

“What reason could they have had for doing so? And they attacked you?”

“Yes,” her voice cracked as remnants of the night’s rage snuck back into her chest. “They knew me, Kodlak, from Dustman’s Cairn, and Farkas too. They know. It  _ was _ a trap. Divines preserve us, they  _ know!” _

His eyes slid shut and he released a sigh that shrunk him. 

“Then it appears I am running on borrowed time.” 

Alarm hissed through splits in her contentment and extinguished the ghost of anger. What did he mean by ‘borrowed time’? Was there a longer history with the werewolf hunters than anyone let on?

“What?” she blurted, “what’s going on? Are you..?”

“Calm yourself child,” he soothed, running a hand over his book. “There is nothing for you to concern yourself over. I am an old man, and my health declines faster each day. If I am to walk the halls of Sovngarde and not Hircine’s wilds, I have much to prepare and little time with which to do it.”

“And the Silver Hand?”

“I cannot place their exact origin,” he paused, “though their fixation on events relevant to us specifically does not bode well. All we can do is maintain vigilance and tread with caution. We must not go looking for trouble.”

Thoughtful quiet descended upon her, muscle memory moving her hand down to scratch Bowin’s forehead. Reassuring though Kodlak was trying to be, she didn’t like that there was a prevalent and pointed threat to these people. She couldn’t handle losing anyone else.

_ So eliminate them. Your power grows and soon your Voice will be heard by all _ .

Jaw tightening in a silent snarl, she viciously shoved down the unwelcome intrusive thoughts. _That was wrong_ , she told herself, _it_ _will_ _be fine. They are warriors_. They sat in tense, reflective silence for a moment longer, broken when she stood.

“I’m not much of a scholar,” she finally said, “but if you need any help…” 

As the door closed behind the young woman, curiosity overtook the Harbinger. While he couldn’t ascertain what kind of asset she could become, the fact that she offered assistance at all had him wondering what her stance on the beast blood was. He knew Skjor planned to turn her and carry on the long-standing tradition, but did she reject it? 

The outcome of that decision, he feared, might widen the fissure that was opening in the Circle. The civil war had already caused brothers to turn blades on one another, and he did not want the Companions to meet a similar fate.

  
########

  
The next day, a rare calm evening was interrupted by the return of Aela, Njada, and Ria. All three of them looked worse for wear, between black bruises, bloodied bandages, and a noticeable limp. Despite their injuries, each of them was in good spirits.

“What happened?” Athis called out, poking a fork in their direction. “You look like you got trampled by mammoths.”

“Screw you, Athis,” Njada retorted, “we didn’t  _ ask _ to be attacked by a dragon.”

“That’s true, but it was a glorious battle,” Aela remarked wistfully as she collapsed into a chair beside Skjor. She took a pull from the mug he gave her before continuing. “What a shame Siddgeir took the skull for himself. The rat didn’t even peek out of his hole until it was dead.”

A dragon attacked Falkreath? A hundred questions rang a thousand alarm bells in Ismene’s head. She abandoned punching rivets into Bowin’s new collar to bring her full attention to the conversation.

“Speak for yourself,” Ria whined, rubbing her arms. “That was the worst frostbite I’ve ever had.”

“We  _ told _ you to get out of the way when it used that ice breath,” Njada barked, annoyed, sounding like she was repeating herself. “Twice.”

“Hold on,” Vilkas interjected from his corner, “did you say  _ ice _ breath? I was under the impression dragons breathed  _ fire _ .”

“Not this one,” Aela explained. “It blew faster than any blizzard and stung sharper than the thickest nettle. It could freeze a horker solid in seconds, I’d wager.”

“And you mentioned the bones.” He sat forward, eyes gleaming with interest. “Did the corpse burn?”

“No,” she answered, “the entire town guard, the miller, and the blacksmith carved away what they could and the court wizard blew away the rest. We couldn’t even get to it, more’s the pity; I wanted to take some of the scales to Eorlund.”

Ismene’s pulse quickened. It must happen only in her presence, when the soul left the body. She swallowed hard, throat suddenly sticky, and she could see Farkas staring at her. The awl slipped from her fingers and clattered on the bench.  _ Damn it all. _

“That puts a hole in your theory,” Vilkas observed. 

“The—well the exception doesn’t disprove the rule,” she reasoned. “It had  _ frost _ breath, so there’s nothing to ignite.”

“It didn’t freeze over, or crack like a cold stone,” Aela offered. “It just sat there, like any old carcass.”

“So it appears you are the common denominator in both instances,” he drawled. “And the only eyewitness.”

“Ah, excuse me but your brother was there once. Why is this worth arguing over?” Ismene caught Farkas’s eye briefly before scoffing, “next you’ll be speculating it happened because I’m the Dragonborn or something.  _ Please _ .”

Her comment elicited laughter from a few of them—which hurt a little, because it was  _ true _ . Even Farkas chuckled, though there was disapproval in his body language. She shrugged at him, silently communicating a half-hearted apology.

“Well… are you?” Athis didn’t seem to take the joke. Instead, he appeared curious. “The Jarl sent for you when the dragon attacked the watchtower. Then the  _ entire  _ city watch started passing around that word. It adds up.”

“That was because of Helgen,” she reminded him. 

“Come to think of it, that was the same day we all heard that loud call Kodlak explained as the Greybeards,” Aela put in. “What was it they said?  _ ‘Dovahkiin’ _ ? Sounds like those old legends doesn’t it?”

“I was informed you went to Ivarstead,” Skjor mused, “which is famously at the foot of the Throat of the World…”

Damn, damn, damn! She was kidding! Why were they suddenly so on top of current events? Were they waiting to bring it up or something? Those counterpoints sounded like they were loaded and ready to go. The goddamn loose-lipped guards! They should all be fired!

_ Because that’s what families do _ , she thought with a sigh.  _ And you should be thankful they care enough to pay attention to you. _ This wasn’t how she pictured breaking the news, but she had to open her mouth and stick her foot directly in it, didn’t she?

“It's true,” she confessed, heart hammering against her sternum. “I'm still having trouble believing it myself." 

And it terrified her.

Further down the same bench, Farkas visibly deflated. 

“Finally,” he groaned, “I know I said I’d help ya, but keepin’ secrets is rough on a guy.”

“So she told  _ you?” _ Vilkas asked sharply, “why were the rest of us undeserving? Not  _ trustworthy? _ ”

Again, irony coming from a secret werewolf. The difficult part of it was that he wasn’t necessarily wrong. That said, she had preferred  _ nobody _ to know. She started to speak, but Farkas bowled over her words with his own.

“Listen up Vilkas. You don’t go talking about your shield-siblings that way. Think about how you’d feel—”

“He’s right,” she interrupted loudly. She winced, seeing the hurt drawing across Ria's face. Hurriedly, she continued, “Let me explain. I didn’t know it was the entire truth until I went up to High Hrothgar. Now imagine someone telling people they’ve got that kind of, er,  _ status _ only to find out they don’t? What kind of fool would I look then?”

“A big one, probably,” he nodded sagely. “But you should’ve seen it, when we killed that dragon—” he paused to shuffle down the bench and draw her exuberantly to his side, “she really took its soul, and even before that breathed fire!”

“I can't believe those rumours were actually  _ true _ . A born dragon slayer, walking amongst us and one of our own to boot. I suppose you’re tracking dangerous game now,” Aela put forth. Against the light of the fire her expression was intense. “We’ll have to up your mettle. The next time Skjor and I go hunting, I’d like you to join us.”

She’d offered a number of times to take her out on a hunt, but she had declined on all of them. It wasn’t as though she no longer enjoyed the activity, rather that it felt wrong to go without Kjell or Leaves by her side. Now, however, that Bowin had returned, perhaps she could get back in the figurative saddle.

“Say the word and I’ll be there.”

“There’s only one thing left to do now, isn’t there?” Torvar spoke up, elbowing Athis with a mischievous grin.

“I think so, my friend,” he chuckled, helping him out of his chair.

Standing shoulder to shoulder, the men began singing in an over dramatic fashion,

_ "Our hero, our hero claims a warrior’s heart…” _   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this, a quick update? "Nature of the Dovah" will be going on hiatus this month. It's a very busy time for me at work and there's some things I want to get ironed out.   
> See you in the new year.  
> \--Ancient


	17. Nature of the Hunt

The streets of Whiterun were completely vacant, save for the ever present guards trudging along their patrol routes. The night had risen peaceful and chill, whispers of distant snow on the wind. While the residents were tucked away in warm beds dreaming, a lone figure prowled around the outside of the city, searching for her fellows.

Drawing the hood of her cloak over her head, Ismene paced, boots crunching over the gravel at the base of the wall. Her breath came in white puffs against the darkness, dissipating into the sky. Where were they? She’d been waiting where Aela had told her to be for what felt like hours.

Beside her, Bowin explored the crumbled stones, stopping every so often to scrape his claws in the dirt. All of a sudden he stood stock still and raised his head, ear swiveling. A low growl accompanied the lifting of the hair on his back.

Without warning, a blocky section of the wall adjacent to where she was standing slid away with a dull grating noise. Dim torchlight could be seen through the hole, hulking shadows inside growing until they blotted it out completely. The sound of multiple pairs of feet on stone abruptly halted, leaving tense silence in their absence.

Then, a pointed snout emerged out of the inky blackness, followed by the face and long body of a werewolf. He was robust and muscular, lean of limb and healthy. Thinning fur of dappling greys covered his body, and a lone silver-brown eye fixed the woman and her dog with a casual gaze. Trotting closely by his side was a familiar rusty female.

When Aela had offered her to take part in their hunt, she hadn’t imagined it this way! While the wall closed up, she looked around frantically, expecting a guard to waltz up and catch them. She watched mutely as Bowin approached the wolves with his head held low, tail wagging exuberantly. He yipped and licked at the underside of Skjor’s muzzle, repeating the action with Aela.

“Relax,” the grey wolf rasped. The normal gruffness of his voice was far more pronounced, and his jaw oscillated strangely around the words. “Nobody’s going to eat you.”

“This is not what I thought you meant by ‘hunting’,” Ismene responded, pulling Bowin back by the collar. “Exactly what prey did you have in mind?”

“You have until dawn to find  _ us _ ,” Aela growled, toothy grin stretching her maw. She loped forward and huffed loudly in her ear before tearing off into the plain, Skjor on her tail.

“What the fuck,” she muttered, bolting after them with Bowin pelting in front. 

On all fours, the werewolves were far faster than her, there was no way she could catch up bar waking the stable hands or stealing a horse. She sighed irritably and carried on nonetheless, picking up the pace. With wide steps she rode out the energy that carried her south toward the forests surrounding Riverwood. While she was still unable to catch them—they got too much of a head start—she was just in time to watch Aela and Skjor split up and melt into the trees.

Scowling, she continued to run after her dog, slowing to a walk only after she crossed the treeline herself. How was it fair that she had to go after them individually? Or were they planning to circle around to throw her off their trail? It was too dark to properly distinguish between their individual paw prints, but she was going to assume Skjor’s were the larger.

“Bow-in-Teeth, come!” she hissed once her heart rate returned to normal. When he was at her side once more, she looped a finger behind his collar and gently tugged his nose toward the smaller pair of prints. No doubt Aela would be enjoying herself and might be the more wily of the two. “Scent. Find.”

Bowin lifted his head and sniffed the air before wandering amongst the undergrowth. Eventually he stood alert, shoulders forward and snout thrust ahead.

“Chase!” she commanded, taking to a jog once more after the galloping canine.

######

Ismene followed the winding tracks deeper and deeper into the bush, and eventually the sparse moonlight that diffused through the trees disappeared altogether. It was only the light coloured fur of Bowin’s legs darting about in the darkness that kept her on the right path, or so she hoped. He hadn’t stopped too often to redirect himself so she assumed the scent must still be strong.

Squinting against the gloom, she spotted twin pinpricks of orange light winking somewhere up ahead. Could that be her quarry’s eyes? Or those of some other beast? Were werewolf eyes even reflective like other animals’?

“Bowin, stop,” she ordered, crouching behind a tree, never taking her gaze off the luminous spots. Quietly she unhooked her bow and set an arrow to the nock, watching and waiting. Her lips dipped into a frown. Those weren’t eyes, she discovered, as one of the lights wavered and sunk at least a foot below the other.

They were torches.

Cursing under her breath, she waded through the undergrowth on her toes, trying to keep her body loose. As long as she could still see whoever was up ahead, she could get around them and the gargantuan fallen tree that separated them. Unfortunately, the other end of the log was wedged inside a deep crack in the face of a rock formation she would need to climb to surpass.

At the sudden sound of voices, she pressed her back against the tree trunk, securing Bowin to her side with her elbow.

“What did you find, Sister Ingrid?”

“Another one of those prints. They’re far too large and spread apart to be a creature of Kyne. A Lycanthrope has passed through here.”

“Werewolf? Are you sure?”

“What else could it be, Ashur? Sabre cat prints aren’t this hand-like, and the toes are wrong for a bear. What this tells me is the ‘assets’ aren’t doing their job.”

When the strangers’ conversation petered out, Ismene craned her neck around the lowest part of the trunk. It was difficult to make out their forms, but she could see they were garbed in mages’ robes. Why would mages be tracking werewolves? For their blood or something else? Realization struck her like a club to the guts. They wouldn’t be.

Those people were Vigilants of Stendarr, and they were after the same prey she was, except their weapons were poised to kill.

“Gods alive this is ridiculous,” she whispered, scowling. Aela and Skjor would be focused on hiding from her, but would they be alert enough to avoid the true danger? “Bowin,” she held a finger to her lips when the dog looked at her, “hush.”

Remaining crouched, she edged along the tree, wary of the voices as they grew louder the closer she got. With the way the trunk blocked her route, Ismene and the Vigilants would have to travel parallel to each other to circumvent it. If she timed her movements correctly it wouldn’t be a problem.

Heart thumping as she fought to discreetly clamber over the rocks, she nearly slipped and fell when her dog let loose a rigid, scraping bark. That was a sound she’d never once heard him make. Alarmed, she finished her climb to stare into the sickly yellow eyes of a humongous sabre cat poised to pounce from its perch on the fallen tree.

Its matted fur was standing in clumps as it kneaded the bark beneath its snow-shoe paws and viscous saliva fell in steady drips from loose jowls. Half clotted blood glistened in the darkness from the strips of gouged flesh hanging over its back leg. Something had attacked it recently and it had been trouble enough for the predator to flee.

“Who’s there!”

Above the noise the animals were making, one of the Vigilants called out. His voice was abrupt enough to break the standoff between Bowin and the sabre cat. Its growls ceased entirely and that was the only warning Ismene received before it leapt at her.

Snapping her arms up into position, she pulled back the bowstring and fired the arrow she had prepared. It was enough to push the sabre cat off course, and instead of crushing her in its jaws, it collided with her, sending the both of them over the opposite side of the rocks. Her bow flew from her grasp into the bushes as she landed roughly on her back.

Bowin was immediately on the offensive. Jumping nimbly up the rocks he charged the sabre cat, taking the flap of skin on its haunch in his teeth and jerking back with all his strength. He was able to distract it from his stunned master, but the bigger animal belted him aside with a wide paw.

Scrambling to her feet, she didn’t bother wasting time looking for her weapon. Ripping her dagger from its sheath, she raced back into the fray. While Bowin harried the cat from behind, she flipped the blade and thrust downward through the top of its head.

“Bowin, heel,” she panted, backing away once sure it was dead. She took the dog’s head in her hands to feel for wounds under his fur.

“Hail traveler,” one Vigilant, a Nord woman, greeted as the pair cleared the tree. “It’s surprising to find one such as you out by herself at this late hour. Did the cat bite you? We can provide remedy if you’ve been infected.”

“No I’m fine, thanks,” Ismene replied, watching the other, a burly Redguard man wearing spiked gauntlets break the curved upper fangs off the sabre cat. “Just on my way to meet up with some other hunters. I’m nearly there so I figured I’d make time and keep going.”

“Beware you don’t end up hunted yourself,” the man warned, offering one of the teeth to his partner. “We’ve found evidence of a werewolf in the area.”

Feigning surprise, she gasped, “Kyne’s grace, are you sure?” With any luck they would give her the signs and be on their way. Where was her bow, anyway?

“The abomination will not escape Stendarr’s light,” the woman assured her gently. “You have no reason to fear—”

Cutting her off with a loud yelp, Bowin bounded away from the group and stood at attention. His eyes were pointed above them, tail wagging excitedly.

“What is it this time?” Ismene craned her neck, squinting into the tangled branches, attention settling from the tree onto the next highest ledge. Her mouth dropped open before her face scrunched into a scowl which she couldn't erase. 

_ Are you kidding me? _

There, sitting below a broad oak, barely visible if not for the way her silver-green eyes shone in the Vigilants’ fires was Aela. Her head was tilted, looking almost haughty as she stared at them, Ismene’s bow clamped in her jaws. She chuffed once with a wink then turned tail and disappeared.

“Hey!” she shouted after her friend, “that’s mine damn you!”

“Would you look at that,” the man muttered angrily, “a disgusting creature  _ and _ a thief. If you want your weapon back, consider assisting us, hunter.”

She was going with them alright, if only to continually throw them off the Companion’s scent. It chafed at her pride and she sent a quick apology to her grandfather beyond the grave, but it was time to throw all his teachings out the proverbial window. Trust Aela to  _ play _ with people whose intentions were less than pleasant. Still, that took some big stones and Ismene had to admire her for it.

“Of course!” she cried, throwing her hands in the air. “The last time someone showed up without his bow, they made him  _ throw _ his arrows, and we still talk about it. Like hell I’m going to be a laughingstock. I might be late but I’ll have the best fireside story.”

“This is no game,” the other woman scoffed, readying a crackling lightning spell in her left hand, gripping an axe in the other.

“She’s got the spirit, Ingrid,” Ashur laughed jovially. His mouth suddenly pulled into a frown, “let’s just hope she doesn’t follow the same vile master as the werewolf.”

Suppressing a sigh, she noted the threat and instructed Bowin to resume the chase, intent on misleading them.

########

Sometime later, the impromptu ‘team’ crossed the treeline onto a south facing road that ran beside the frothing White River. If they continued along it at a good clip they might reach Falkreath by mid morning. At that point Ismene was completely sure Bowin had lost the trail, given how he trotted along in a happy-go-lucky fashion.

Behind her the Vigilants were growing restless. Every so often she caught snippets of their conversation and it seemed their trust in her was fading, quickly.

“You’re sure this is the right way?” Ingrid questioned irritably. “Did it really follow the road so perfectly?”

Resisting the urge to rub away the tension headache building in her temples, Ismene nodded. 

“Even if they change shape I’m sure there’s still a  _ little _ bit of person left in the wolf,” she reasoned. “All roads lead to home as they say.”

“False,” Ashur grunted, cracking his neck. “They are demon-spawn and forfeited their humanity the second they  _ thought _ of allying themselves to a Daedric Prince.”

Ahead, Bowin paused to scent the air. He looked back at her before dashing to the edge of the road toward the river.

“No!” she yelled, “Bow-in-Teeth, you get  _ away _ from there!”

Months of roaming on his own had clearly damaged his hearing, for instead of heeding her command, he leaped into the water. His head disappeared under the rushing surface only to reappear on the opposite bank. He shook himself off before plunging into the forest, barking.

“He’s found the abomination. After him!”

“Are you kidding? That water’s probably freezing—”

“The two of you can stand here and argue all night,” Ismene snapped, “but I’m not waiting for something to kill my dog.” True to her word, she immediately waded into the chilly water, cloak and all. The rapid current buffeted her to and fro and she was certain something large brushed her leg, but she made it across. The Vigilants were still bickering on the other side.

For that, her durable partner was getting an extra biscuit.

Spluttering, cursing, and wiping wet hair out of her eyes, she sloshed into the woods following the sound of barking. Jubilant yowls of a lower octave joined in and soon she came upon Bowin trying to take her weapon from Aela.

“That’s quite enough,” she seethed. “Both of you,  _ sit! _ ” Were she not damp and irate, she might have laughed, watching them comply. “What were you thinking? They’re after you now. You should have stayed hidden!”

“You worry too much,” Aela yawned, the motion flashing wicked teeth. “You don’t  _ seriously _ believe they’re a match for two adult werewolves at their full power? And the Dragonborn?”

Adult werewolves? Could children be turned? She shook her head vigorously, careful not to be whipped by the beads in her hair.

“Maybe not,” she sighed, “but I still don’t think showing yourself so brazenly was appropriate…”

“They don’t know who I am,” Aela shrugged, which was more an awkward bob of her head, “and you’ve yet to find Skjor. It’s annoying, I agree—we were trying to give you a good experience, a taste of what it’s like to be a pack. It used to be a little more fun with the boys, but the night remains the same.”

She had to wonder what her fallen friends might make of this situation. A sad smile played at her cheeks as she imagined them both yelling about how crazy she was for playing ‘hide and chase’ with a werewolf.

“I know Skjor already explained our bonds, but if you think anything like us, you need to  _ feel _ it,” she went on, standing. “Kodlak will tell you we are cursed, but he fails to understand that it’s a  _ blessing _ . Answering the call of the hunt is a never ending  _ thrill _ . To utilize it fully… you must know yourself and the balance within.”

“You’re only as beastly as you make yourself out to be?”

“More like… It’s the perfect blend of animal instinct and the cunning of man; how long the wolf’s lead goes is up to you. Work harmoniously with it and you’ll find capability you never knew you had.”

The depths of Aela’s view surprised her. _ ‘Wild, untamed, and dangerous,’ _ Ingemar had always described them as something to be feared. The way it was put to her now spoke of a special brand of liberty and family that made her heart ache with longing.

But what of her dragon soul? Those instincts already manifested cruel murmurings, and adding a wolf to her blood might make it worse. There was no way to know, and she already hit a dead end when the Greybeards could not offer specific information about just what it meant to  _ be _ Dragonborn. She doubted Arngeir would have any patience for this type of dilemma at all.

If she were to complete the ritual… would the two mix poorly? Or not at all? Could she handle training both to her will, instead of she to theirs?

There was only one way to know, and she found herself growing more and more curious by the minute.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Ismene whispered, taking Bowin to her side and flattening herself behind a tree. “I heard something.”

Nostrils flaring, Aela nodded. “They’re nearly here, I can smell the lightning magic. Perhaps it’s time to find Skjor. I can’t wait to see their faces when they see him.”

“Why bother?” She withdrew an arrow and double checked her bowstring, thankful it hadn’t been snapped. “We could just get out of here, they’d never find us…”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s what you really want. Remember: you’re not the prey here.”

_ The  _ dovah _ do not flee from challenges _ .

_ Quiet, you! Me? Whoever! _

Aela was right, though. Independent of that inner dialogue, she wanted to remove the danger the pair of Vigilants presented, even though they hadn’t done anything besides bluster and threaten.  _ Not yet, but given the chance they would not show the same mercy _ .  _ A little ironic... _

“There it is! Miss hunter, what are you waiting for?”

“Time to act, under-dog.” Aela was on her feet, ready to fight.

“Not here,” Ismene said, already making her way past her. “The trees are too close. We’ll get them into a place where the terrain is good, somewhere I can get up high,” she frowned, “and we can pick them off.”

“I think I know just the spot. Try to keep up.”

Mindful of any sounds the Vigilants might be making, they sprinted as quickly as they could through the forest. Unexpectedly, the bark on a nearby tree exploded with an ear-splitting crack, embers flying from the charred wood. Even before the sound faded, a blast of horizontal lightning struck another, seconds after Aela had passed it.

_ Now those are fighting words _ , Ismene thought, feeling the hair on the back of her neck rise with static.

“You need to pick up the pace!” Aela growled. “That was too close!”

“I’ve only got two legs!” she snapped. She could use her new Shout, but slamming into a tree would allow their pursuers to run her over. If they’d caught on that she wasn’t working against the werewolf, that could prove a fatal mistake.

Eventually their route led them into a dead end, high walls of sheer gray rock stretching far above. To her immense frustration, the way out was clearly visible but the scattering of narrow ledges began too high for her to jump.

“I thought you said you knew a good spot!” she hissed.

“I can get up there easily…” Aela crouched and sprang upward, catching the nearest outcrop with her clawed hands and hauled herself atop it. Bending her long body over the side, she stretched out an arm. “Come on, pup I’ll help you—”

“I knew it!” Bursting out of the brush, Ingrid advanced on Ismene as she’d grasped Aela’s paw, fury in her face and lightning dancing in her palms. “You’re assisting that fiend and now you must pay for your deception.”

Ashur was not far behind her, wrestling with Bowin, who had a vicegrip on his arm. He allowed the dog to pull him until he was bent at the waist, then with a roar he swung his entire torso up in a powerful arc. He freed himself, leaving Bowin with a mouthful of bloodied sleeve. Without needing to recover or a cue from his partner, he ran at Ismene, fist cocked back.

“This charade ends now!” he yelled, but before he could make contact, a rusty blur blew him off his feet. Wheezing through bared teeth, Ashur brought both arms up and slammed the heels of his open palms into the underside of Aela’s jaw before she could sink her fangs into his neck.

Howling and spitting furiously, she recoiled as though he’d set fire to her fur. As she scrambled off the Redguard, she was set upon by Ingrid and her axe.

“Back off!” Ismene shouted, stepping in to block her strike. Carrying herself through the momentum created by pushing back her foe’s next attack, she planted her foot and circled around Ingrid’s back. Using her free hand, she gathered a fistful of the neck of her robes, swiftly yanking her head down to meet the pommel of her dagger.

Meanwhile, Aela and Ashur circled each other around the inside of the U-shaped cliff.

“What’s wrong?” he jeered, curling and uncurling his fists, “why so reluctant to come in close, monster?”

She let out a vicious snarl as she stood on hind legs to her full height. Bending, she pushed off on one leg and stretched herself out as she did, planting both hands on his chest when she made contact.

He had braced himself for her attack, and as she hit him, he took hold of her underarms and twisted his body, throwing her to the side. He was on her then, hands clamped around her throat, gripping tighter and tighter until he was violently smacked into the cliffside.

“Ashur get up!” Ingrid screamed, abandoning Ismene to rush to her fallen partner, but the blow to the head she’d sustained had altered her equilibrium and she toppled to the ground. Unwilling to give up, she rose to her knees and shot lightning into the back of his assailant.

“Take care of her, damn it!” Skjor bellowed as he wrestled with Ashur. “Never let your prey walk away to raise a fist to your pack!”

Picking up the woman’s axe where she’d abandoned it, Ismene was faced with a choice. She could easily bury it in the back of her head, or she could give it back and earn her victory. Foe or not, she understood the fear in her outcry. The dragon-instinct roared for her instant and bloody death all the same, but a wizened voice spoke over it.

_ Honour, and trust above all are the lifeblood of the Companions. _

“Get up,” she demanded, throwing the weapon down. “Defend yourself!”

Slowly, Ingrid rose, using the axe as a crutch, but she was still unsteady. One swing would send her down again. Her face was full of hate as she prepared another spell.

“Why? Why give me the opportunity to kill you?” she asked, electricity sizzling to life. “Do not expect us to spare those creatures the same.”

“I’m not in the habit of slaying the defenseless. You’re a Nord too, so you should understand the need to die standing,” Ismene explained angrily, drawing the Skyforge steel sword she’d earned.

“To Sovngarde with you, then.” She dropped the cumbersome axe again and, curling her fingers in, staggered forward. She swiped out with one electrified hand, the violet bolts jumping between them.

When her hand closed around Ismene’s arm, the shock spell coursed through her muscles, lifting every hair on her body. Screaming through a jaw wired shut by the current, she caught the edges of her sword sparking brilliantly. Fighting it off the best she could, she jerked that arm stiffly forward, thrusting the blade into her enemy's side.

The completion of the current ran electricity through both fighters and forced them apart with a burst of energy. She landed on her back, losing her sword to the flying corpse of her foe. As she lay prone, the remnants of the spell ran their course, forcing her limbs to twitch spastically.

_ Well that could have gone better _ , she thought once she regained her faculties. Before she had control over her motor skills, something warm and wet dragged itself across her face.

“ _ Argh _ ,” she spluttered, “Bowin  _ don’t! _ ”

Whining and pushing his cold nose into her cheek, he didn’t remove himself until she sat up. Assured that his master wasn’t dead, he lay down, forelegs draped across her knees. If he had calmed himself, what became of Aela and Skjor’s battle?

Close to the stones, the werewolves were busy checking over each other’s wounds. From where she could see, both sported hand sized welts that had made bare patches in their hide, edged by blackened fur. Had the lightning done that? But no… in Aela’s case, hers were in the places Ashur had touched her.

Brows drawing together, she removed Bowin and got up to inspect the Vigilant’s body. He had never drawn a weapon, so had his gloves been poisoned? Gingerly peeling one arm away from his eviscerated torso with her foot, she uncorked her water skin and poured it over his hand to wash away the blood. Satisfied, she inspected the palm, perplexed by what she saw.

Woven amongst the soft leather was a mesh of fine metallic threads. Sewn onto the pads of each digit were small plates and on top, pointed studs on all knuckles. 

“Can one of you come look at this?” she called. She held an arm out to prevent Skjor from getting too close. “Am I seeing this right?”

“His gauntlets are packed with silver,” he rasped, baring his teeth. “I’d bet my good eye that the other one’s axe is edged with it too.”

“Since when do Vigilants of Stendarr use weapons like that?” Aela mused, trotting over. She pushed her forehead into her shoulder. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” she shook her head. “What about either of you? Is that all it really takes for silver to hurt you is a touch?”

“Yes and no,” Skjor answered as Aela dragged the bodies into the bush. “Pure silver will burn on contact like a brand. The regular sort might too, but it won’t draw blood.” He let out a snarl that made her shiver. “The bastards don’t use it. Not normally.”

“But we know who does.”

“I think we should keep this between us for now, Ismene,” he stared her down, “no need to trouble Kodlak until we know for sure that’s the case, what you’re reaching for.”

“Suppose the Silver Hand  _ are _ supplying the Vigilants—or vice versa. What would that mean, beyond a different kind of weapon?” She stooped to pick up Ingrid’s axe. Sure enough, the sharp edge as well as the butt of the handle were capped sterling.

“Organization,” he answered, frost in his tone. “Someone with a real bone to pick is calling the shots. Look at it this way. A ragtag clan of bandit-turned-werewolf slayers is going to catch flack from law enforcement everywhere. Anyone from Stendarr’s Beacon or the Hall of the Vigilant? There’s a degree of respect there. It might also resonate with those who identify with ‘doing the Divine’s work’.”

“Hiding a dark thing behind a well known name. Sounds familiar.”

Skjor’s eyes narrowed and he brushed past her none too gently.

“There’s a clear difference,” he warned, “and I hoped tonight would make that obvious to you. The stigma lycanthropy has was earned, yes, but it isn’t a reason for culling. The fact that you and I are having this discussion while I am in this form should only reinforce this.”

“It’s about  _ choice _ ,” Aela affirmed as she came back into view. There was a dense darkness about her throat and muzzle that hadn’t been before she left that made Ismene’s stomach turn when she realized just what made it so.

“And this is the part where you ask me what mine is,” she concluded.

“I won’t lie, I would enjoy having a pack-sister very much. Stalking prey together, reveling in the joy of the chase.” Even without the right features, there was a slow smile in her voice. “Being free. Embrace the wolf spirit and you could be the ultimate hunter. A true predator from which neither man nor beast, even  _ dragons _ , can escape.”

_ The  _ dov _ are already the pinnacle of might. The Voice is all that is required. _

It was appealing, she wouldn’t deny. First, she wanted to find out what else the Greybeards wanted her to do before she could get their leader’s counsel. But afterward? With all that made her ‘dragon-like’ pushed back into permanent slumber, she could focus on this. The Hunting Grounds didn’t worry her, Ingemar would be there to guide her.

Yes. She would get the rest under control and then have her life back to do with what she pleased. So what if there were dragons? They weren’t her responsibility just because she was Dragonborn. For all she knew her awakening was just a side effect of their return.

All she ever wanted was a little bit of freedom.

“How can I resist such a tempting offer?”

Both of them looked at her then, eyes shining in the dim light of approaching dawn, but for the first time Ismene wasn’t intimidated. She knew the dangers of what she was agreeing to and had given them their due thought. 

“Good,” Skjor grinned, “then as before we will meet in the Underforge, when you are ready.”   
  



	18. The Nature of Futility

The world took a fuzz around the edges and the sight of it stung his eyes, but he couldn’t afford to waste a moment to brush the sweat from them. His legs were like lead and his burning lungs couldn’t take in as much air as they needed, but he couldn’t stop. Each time his feet met with the hard ground, the impact rattled his back teeth and shook his brain in his skull, but he had to keep going.

Not for the first time, he lamented the fact that they hadn’t given him a horse. Every camp he ran to boasted a small herd of them, but it was for the best; a beast of burden was loud and attracted attention. That was fine, he didn’t like animals. Wasn’t good with them.

He’d run past the watchtowers hours prior and the impassive faces of the Hold guards had lifted some of the anxiety out of his chest, but he was long past and his pace was beginning to run out. The sword strapped to his hip was an unnecessary weight, but it was the only thing keeping him steady. There was still a long way to go, the Stormcloak camp was to the north, past Whiterun, and night was falling faster than he wanted.

A torch was also a luxury runners weren’t spared.

Why did he sign up for this again?

_ "Why can't you be more like your father?" _

_ "You'll never amount to anything with your head in the clouds, boy. You need the Legion's discipline all right." _

He kept running.

Time wore on and so did the road. He was lucky to sneak past a bear with cubs, and that weathered his mood better. His heightened confidence served no purpose, however, when an arrow unexpectedly pierced through the muscle between his neck and shoulder.

Guts churning, fear and pain flooded his body with adrenaline. Who was attacking? Was he going to be robbed, wounded, and left at the side of the road to die? He spared a wild glance behind him.

Not bandits.

A trio of Imperial soldiers was too close for comfort, in hot pursuit. One hung back while two charged forward, naked blades glinting in the light of their torches.

“Stop where you are, rebel!” one of them barked. “You’re under arrest for crimes against the Empire!”

“No, no, no!” he moaned. Another arrow whizzed by his ear, nicking the lobe. “Shit!”

Somewhere further behind the Legionnaires, the heavy pounding of hooves grew louder, and the whinny of a horse cut through him like a knife.

This was it! He was dead!

He looked again, just in time to catch the rider decapitating the soldier who had been shooting at him as he rode by. Nauseating as the sight was, he was relieved to see that they wore a familiar shade of blue, a bear mantle covering most of their face. The jet black horse reared up and stomped down hard on one of the Legionnaires, squealing when the last sliced into its flank. The rider brought his axe down on the top of his head.

Through all the violence, the warhorse didn’t so much as snort again in agitation. He couldn’t believe an  _ animal _ was more courageous than he was. It kept forward, running toward him at the behest of its master, who leaned over in the saddle, hand outstretched.

“Get on!” he commanded.

When he felt his hand connect with the rider’s, he wondered what kind of demerit he’d get for having to be saved by a superior officer while carrying sensitive information. Would they discharge him? At this point he might not even care.

He hooked his fingers under as much of the saddle as he could grip and tried to ignore the burning in his shoulder where the arrow stuck out, watching the fletching bob in time with the horse’s movements. Each time it wiggled, pain shot down his arm and a little more blood leaked out.

“They must not have been following you for very long,” the rider spoke up finally. His voice was tense by the fight they galloped away from. 

“What makes you say that?” He flinched when the horse leapt over a stone in the path they’d veered off onto. The road was further and further out of sight behind them.

“You're still alive.” 

“Don’t remind me."

The rider laughed. “Seems you have horseshoes up your arse in all the right ways.”

“Oh I’ve been kicked alright.”

“We’ll get you first aid when we arrive at camp, not to worry.”

Nothing more was said between them, even as the Whiterun Stormcloak camp came into view. It wasn’t much to look at, just a small cluster of hide tents nestled amongst the rocks on a small plateau in one of the low peaks surrounding the plains. Horse hitched, they strode toward the biggest tent, passing a working blacksmith who looked up with a lazy salute.

“Snow-Hammer,” he grunted before resuming his task.

“Aye,” the bear-clad officer nodded. “Send Felgir to me when you get a moment.” Once Inside the tent, he picked up a candle and lit a squat, mesh covered brazier. He grabbed up a bottle of mead, handed it to him, then gestured to an empty four legged stool. “You’ll want to have a rest, I'm sure. What camp were you headed to?”

He swallowed the swig of the drink he took, grateful for the warmth already spreading to his numb extremities. 

“This one.” He drank again. “Ah. Suppose this must be for you,” he produced the scroll case containing the message, “if you’re the commander here?”

The bear skin’s nose drooped as he nodded. Wordlessly, he took the case and removed the documents. His eyes scanned the pages, mouth creasing into a frown. He sighed and shook his head.

“The Rift’s having problems, it seems.” His tone was heavy. He yanked one of the bear’s ears and flipped the hood back, dragging his palms over his face. Fatigue was set deeply in his clear blue eyes, and the skin of his cheek was an angry red around a fresh looking wound that untamed whiskers couldn’t hide. “What else is new. You did well, messenger. Ah. Apologies,” he held out a hand, “Ralof of Riverwood. They call me Snow-Hammer around here, but I prefer to think of myself as an equal. We’re  _ all _ sons and daughters of Skyrim.”

He accepted the shake with his uninjured arm. This man had saved his life, he didn’t care how he viewed himself—he was a hero. And maybe just agreeable enough to keep this little incident between them.

“Svein.”

Ralof’s eyes narrowed and his lips worked through soundless words. “It’s not…  _ Haugen _ , is it? Yours is a common name, but…”

“How’d you guess that?”

“Ah, at long last!” A smile lit up his handsome face. “Then it seems I have a message for you, too. Ismene says ‘try not to die.’”

Svein stared blankly at him, ignoring the third person entering the tent. He hadn’t heard from her in  _ months _ , and when he did it was something like this? He almost wanted to laugh; that was entirely on brand for her. More to his frustration was the lack of news, and no greeting yet again from either of the others. 

“Where in Oblivion did you come by my sister? Did you swoop in to save her at some point too?” he snorted, yelping when the field medic pulled the arrowhead out of his flesh without much warning. He spared the rather spindly man a glance when he tied off the bandage, clinical and impassive in his care.

His jovial expression fled from his face and he hunched over in his seat. He was quiet for awhile, clearly deliberating his words. Finally, he removed his exhausted gaze from the ground between them and set it on him.

“No,” he said slowly, “ _ she _ was the one who saved  _ me _ . If not for her… I may have died in the dragon attack on Helgen. She’s insisted it wasn’t so, but here I am.”

“I’m sorry,  _ what? _ ” He stared at him in disbelief. While it wasn’t a surprise she might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, just why hadn’t she contacted him? Likely she believed ‘no news is good news,’ but frankly he thought it was ridiculous. He was her  _ brother _ , for fuck sakes, and no matter what they both thought of their disastrous little family, he always would be.

The upset must have shown plainly on his face because Ralof held up a hand as if to stay him. He looked uncertain however, like he’d said something he wasn’t supposed to. 

“Why? How did that happen? There was an execution going on, after the ambush right?” Svein swallowed thickly. Everyone knew about the day Ulfric had been captured. “None of the civilians made it out as far as anyone’s heard, so… not that I’m not  _ relieved _ , but…”

“Sometimes a fisherman catches more in his net than the fish he wants,” he said dully. “I shouldn’t say any more, if she hasn’t told you herself. If you want to go talk to her, you’ll find her in Whiterun. I can take you by the city if you want.”

“As much as I want to march in there and see if she’s alright…” he swallowed again and glared at the map on the table. “I have  _ duties _ .”

Ralof stood and stashed the papers in a satchel at his belt. He shuffled around in a chest at the foot of a rickety cot before throwing a homespun tunic and pants at him.

“Get changed and meet me back at the horses. Can’t very well walk into Whiterun in uniform. Too dangerous,” he instructed. “If you’re fortunate, they might put you up for the night. Be back sometime the day after next and I’ll have a reply ready for you.”

“‘They?’” Svein parroted as he gathered up the clothing. “So you know where she lives? Just how close are the two of you?”

“Friends, forged under duress,” he answered with a sharp glance. “Get a move on, soldier, it’s already getting late.”

Once Ralof left the tent, he discarded his blues in favour of the itchy wool shirt. There was something he wasn’t telling him, and it set a sourness in his belly. The questions he had clumsily avoided answering made him nervous--there was more trouble at work here, he was sure of it.

He must have taken too long, because Ralof and the black horse trotted up to the tent. Wordlessly he got on behind him and stayed quiet until he bid a good night once the gates of Whiterun came into view. He sauntered past the guards as though he belonged there, but despite his casual air, dread dogged his footsteps.

He hadn’t made it too far past a lively tavern called  _ ‘the Drunken Huntsman’ _ when he realized Ralof had neglected to tell him where Ismene might be staying. He certainly wasn’t going to ask the half dressed drunk emptying his stomach into the bushes. He wrinkled his nose.  _ This _ was the city that so successfully kept itself out of the war? 

“‘Scuse me.” He gave a jaunty wave to a guard who was leaning under the veranda facing a burbling well. He suppressed a shudder when the blank eyes of her helmet faced him. “I’m lookin’ for someone, could you help me?" He paused, wracking his brain for the best way to explain his sister, it had been awhile. "A woman, blonde, blue warpaint, about yea high,” he held a hand up at nose level, palm facing the ground, “probably followed by a drooling hound?”

Svein imagined he’d probably described the typical Nord woman, but those details sure sounded like her. At least they did, last he saw her. 

“Up in the Wind District. Try Jorrvaskr.” The guard pointed up a set of stairs opposite them. A giant, half dead tree could be seen through the arch. 

He flashed a smile and followed her directions, coming to a halt outside the huge, overturned ship and stared. As in  _ that _ Jorrvaskr? The Companions’ place? What did she do there, fetch the mead? There was no way, she was far too proud for that. He kind of hoped it was true though, just so he could tease the hell out of her for it. He twiddled his thumbs for a second before shrugging and ascending the stairs. This was either going to be hilarious or an utter disaster, but he was feeling lucky. 

Heat from a large hearth washed over him as he stepped tentatively inside the hall. A table had been overturned and the culprits, two men the spitting image of each other, were embroiled in a fierce wrestling match. Off to one side, a greying, one-eyed man called out suggestions to whoever was losing at the time (very confusing in his opinion), while the ferocious looking red haired woman beside him jeered. 

“Are you lost?” A second, dark eyed woman sitting on a bench near the door demanded, making him jump. She folded her arms and stared coolly at him, the dagger on her hip somehow obvious despite her position. Her question stalled the fight, and the others added their attention. 

“N-no?” Svein shivered, suddenly feeling like a rabbit before a wolf pack. Every person in the room probably knew a hundred different ways to kill him without breaking a sweat. Maybe not Dark Brotherhood style but there was still something bloodthirsty behind their eyes.

“Well then, what do you  _ want? _ ” One of the wrestlers, the smaller one in the headlock, struggled against his distracted twin but could not break free. 

“I’m here to see my sister,” he pulled at his beard and his eyes darted unconsciously around the room. He cleared his throat. “Her name's Ismene, uh, someone told me she should be here?” For the life of himself he couldn't figure out why. These people seemed so… hostile, almost, and very different from the company she normally kept.

“Yeah, she’s one of us, our shield-sister.” Recognition crossed the face of the bigger twin, though he didn't let up on his grip. He smiled, but the sharpness of his teeth didn't look so happy. “She never told us she had a  _ real _ brother though.”

Svein found himself somewhat insulted by that. 

“She’s not here,” one-eye grunted. “We’ll tell her you stopped by.”

“When will she return?” He didn’t have all the time in the world to waste waiting around a town he really wasn’t supposed to be in. 

“Could be days, maybe a week. Hard to tell with that one, she likes to take the long way home. Njada, find him some paper, and a quill.”

The frumpy woman with a bad attitude picked herself up off the bench and returned. She shoved the materials into his hands with such force he almost dropped them before stalking away, muttering something about ‘outsiders’ and ‘the woodwork’.

If he'd been feeling braver, he'd have called her out on it.

Svein tucked himself out of sight to write, hoping they’d carry on with whatever shenanigans they had been up to and leave him be for the moment. He couldn’t help but wonder just how his flighty, wilderness-loving sibling fell in with these ill-tempered barbarians, or how Kjell and especially magically-inclined Leaves-no-Trail had ever agreed to do so.

_ Hello, my dear brat _

_ Where are you? I ran all the way from bloody Riften to Whiterun and you’ve got the nerve to be somewhere else? How rude of you. Mother would be ashamed. Disgusting. Can’t believe I actually wrote that. _

_ In all seriousness, you’ve got some explaining to do. Why did I have to hear about you being at Helgen when dragons were burning the place into yesterday’s charcoal from one of my superiors? What were you thinking? I can’t stick around until you come back so this will have to do for now. We need to meet, and soon. At the very least please write me! I mean it, or so help you..! _

_ Much love,  _

_ Svein _

_ p.s. your new friends are mean. And this place smells like dogs. No wonder you like it here. _

##########

“Did I mention I hate this?”

“Yes, Lydia, you have.”

“It’s going to take me a month to dry out my boots. And the mud! It’ll rust my greaves!”

“I’m sure Adrianne will help you,” Ismene sighed, sparing a glance at Bowin, who scampered through the shin-deep swamp, oblivious.

“Next time can we go somewhere a little  _ less _ miserable?” she grumbled, lifting a sodden foot out of the sludgy ground with a loud squelch.

“According to the map...” she ignored her complaints, dragging a finger over the parchment. She looked up briefly to find Bowin in heated combat with a flat mudcrab. “We should be here. Have you seen any stonework?”

“There’s a few crumbled pillars just ahead,” she pointed, “do you think the swamp swallowed the ruins?”

Squinting, Ismene followed her hand with her eyes. Sure enough, three large greystones protruded from the muck like broken, rotting teeth. In between them, just barely visible, was a mouldy dome of close fitting stones. Lips curling, she made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. It was very much like Dustman’s Cairn, meaning she knew exactly what was in store for them and she was not enthusiastic about it.

“Oh not this shit again.”

“This?” Lydia questioned derisively, peering down into the pit once they arrived, “this is Ustengrav? It’s a hole. In the ground.”

“Sure,” she grumbled as she and Bowin descended the slick steps, “on the  _ outside _ . Whatever kind of object this Horn is better be worth what we’ll have to face.”

“It looks like a tomb, how bad could it be?”

“Have you ever actually  _ seen _ an animated draugr?” She pushed the heavy metal door open, wrinkling her nose at the smell that issued out of it.

“Well, no,” she replied, stepping over a recently killed bandit. “But—shh I hear someone speaking!”

The pair ducked behind a cluster of body sized urns, hiding from the duo of black robed figures who were just visible against a brightly burning lantern up ahead.

“Why can’t you stop them from turning on each other?” a man’s voice whined irritably. “When they actually stay upright that is. We’ve been here for weeks already, and we haven’t dug any further! I want that treasure!”

“The Imperial City wasn’t built in a day,” a woman hissed. “Make yourself useful and clear out those damned draugr before they kill my subjects again.”

“And risk a rusty axe in the back of my head? I think not.”

“So end them before they wake!”

“Shut up and cast the spell, s’wit!”

“What did you call me?! Keep mouthing off and  _ your _ corpse will carry the pickaxe!”

“Subtle,” Lydia muttered dryly. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That they’re after the Horn too? We can’t let that happen.” 

Readying her bow, Ismene began to creep further into the dim chamber, motioning for her to follow. Once she was in position, she took aim. She didn’t condone unnecessary killing, but there was no telling how many people—rogue criminals or not—those necromancers had murdered.

The mouthy man went choking to the floor with an arrow in his chest, but before she could shoot another, the woman escaped into a tunnel at the far end of the cavern. Behind her, a fur-clad corpse rose to his feet, engulfed in a ghostly blue fire. With a drawn out moan, he lifted a rusty pickaxe and a dagger as he shambled his way toward them.

“Lydia, take Bowin and go after her,” she instructed, sprinting out from cover to keep the zombie in her sights. “I’ll take care of this one and follow when I can. We need to stop her from raising anything else.”

Shifting her grip on her battleaxe, she nodded, whistled sharply and dashed off, dog hot on her heels.

As soon as her housecarl was out of view, Ismene edged around the pillar she hid behind. Where was he? He didn’t follow her, so—

“Fuck!”

Forgoing all attempts at stealth, she dove into the open, away from the pick that had been inches from caving in her face. In the time she took to gain distance, the undead bandit yanked his weapon free from the stone and came at her again. He stampeded onward with unnatural determination even with an arrow lodged firmly in his unbeating heart. A second in his forehead gave her enough opportunity to jam her knife into his throat.

If ever given the opportunity to speak with them, she had words for the individual whose job it was to make sure corpses stayed dead. There were enough of the living looking to make more of them as it was.

She continued through the passages, following the trail of sliced up draugr until they opened up into a tiered room. Low stone tables still laden with ancient crockery sat in once orderly rows, side by side all the way to the far wall, the disarticulated skeletons of former occupants scattered on top. Standing on one split down the middle trying to deter a quartet of withered foes whilst fending each other off were Lydia and the necromancer. Bowin had a wriggling fifth by the ankle, attempting to drag it away as it clutched the leg of the nearest table. It released a parched scream when the dog tore off its limb from the knee down.

“I've had enough of you!” Lydia stepped back, heel on the very edge of the table, then lunged forward, planting the head of the Axe of Whiterun under the woman's ribs. The blunt attack threw her from the tabletop and into the collected draugr.

They grabbed at the shrieking mage with clammy hands, two seizing her arms, and a third silenced her via a mace through the forehead. The fourth climbed a chair onto the table and immediately engaged Lydia in combat. The rest divided themselves, two crunching their way toward Ismene and the last chased Bowin out of the room.

After felling one of her assailants at a distance, she ran past the other, “you get back here! Leave him be!”

“My Thane, where— _ oof! _ ” Without much room to maneuver its equally large, ungainly weapon, the draugr fighting Lydia shoved her off the table. Thinking quickly, she balanced herself with her axe and, shifting her weight to the butt of the handle, vaulted forward with it to cave in the chest of the other with a kick. She dispatched it by crushing its head underfoot and pivoted back around, swinging upward to cut the draugr that pushed her in two.

Meanwhile, Ismene burst into a vast, crumbling room in time to watch Bowin throw himself off the ledge his attacker cornered him on and out of sight. His yelp could be heard above the rush of water coming from the spring at the bottom of the pit, but not over her enraged snarl. The knife she still held left her hand, flung from her fist with all her strength. She kept running toward the draugr even as it toppled out of sight, blade stuck to the hilt in the middle of its back. Determined to beat it into a fine paste, she unthinkingly hurtled over the verge herself.

The stupidity of what she'd done slammed into her head when she saw just how far down the bottom really was—and that Bowin had landed safely somewhere above her. Another narrow arch of stone rapidly drew near her as she fell. It ended her descent as gently as a giant defended is herd of mammoths.

Unable to draw a proper breath, she gasped frantically as she fought to take hold of the uneven surface before she went completely off the edge. With bloody fingertips shredded by the small stones in the dirt, she snagged the rim of a deep crack and scaled over the lip of the slender bridge, air starved muscles protesting her movements. Winded, she heaved the rest of her body onto the flat ground and lay limp on her side. Dense, persistent pain palpitated throughout her torso, but by far the worst was the stinging in her hands. She would be fine.

“Ismene!”

Still panting, she lifted her head to spot the speck above that was Lydia. With a halfhearted wave, she managed to pull herself into a sitting position.

“Down here!” she croaked. “Grab—hah—Bowin and meet me—ahh—at the bottom!”

“What were you thinking, jumping off a ledge like that?” she scolded once the two met at the side of the pool of clear, brisk water.

“In my defence I didn't know it was that high up,” she mumbled, waving her away. “I'm actually a little sorry that draugr went down so easy. Nobody messes with my best boy, isn't that right, Bowin?”

He barked, eagerly accepting affection from his master.

“You'd leap to your death for a dog. I'd love to know what you'd do for a person—wait, no, don't tell me,” she sat on a dry stone, “I don't want a heart attack this far from civilization.”

Ismene laughed and offered her canteen. 

She got to her feet and walked to where the water started flowing over a crumbled footpath. The smooth slabs of cut stone were still visible below the surface, sunk only deep enough that the water covered the toes of her boots. Careful not to slip, she continued slowly toward the fading structure in the middle, which she could now see was a Word Wall.

As she stepped cautiously forward, the now familiar chanting beckoned her closer, crooning like an old friend. The infinitude of ancient voices, she could now tell, proclaimed something in  _ Dovahzul,  _ the same words over and over. She could not understand them, and now, instead of feeling exhilaration or courage, deep seated frustration boiled from the darkest hollows of her being because of it.

The chorus continued to sing.

She reached out a hand to touch the carvings of the only word she could make out,  _ 'feim,'  _ recoiling in shock when she discovered that she could see through it to the wall beyond. It was only then that she realized she received no sensations from anywhere on her body—no pain, not the rub of her clothing, not the spray of the waterfall on her face. It was as if her physical form had stopped existing entirely.

The voices fell silent, and she was whole again.

Turning sharply on her heel, she yelled, “Lydia, did you see that?!”

“See what? You touched the wall. Was something supposed to happen?”

“I was completely transparent! Like a ghost!”

“I think that fall scrambled your brains.”

“ _ Whuff!” _

##########

If Ismene had been particularly scholarly-inclined, she would have enjoyed the history of their surroundings more. As it was, in the face of trying to coax Bowin past not so hidden fire traps and through ankle deep spiderwebs, she cursed her ancestry. Eventually she’d given up and instead cradled him like the baby he was acting and dashed through. Unremarkably similar as it was, the traps and occasional cluster of beings lurking in dark crevices kept them alert. 

By the time the monumental, talon-like pillars in the burial chamber came into view, she desperately missed the sunlight. Practically running up the path between them, she made a beeline for the beautifully carved sarcophagus in the centre of the room. 

Atop the flat surface of a low altar in front of the coffin, two stone hands reached skyward, clearly designed to hold an object in reverence. 

Except they didn’t. 

What they clutched between them was a roll of paper that looked decidedly new compared to, well, everything else.

“What in the name of the Divines is this?” She snatched it up and scanned the hastily scrawled words with narrowed eyes.

_ Dragonborn _ , it read,

_ Meet me at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood. Ask for the attic room. _

_ I need to speak with you, urgently. _

_ A friend. _

“ _ Excuse me?”  _ Ismene screeched angrily. She crushed the note in her hand and snarled. “We had to go through this—this horse shit..! And someone’s already..! I cannot  _ believe _ this! ‘A friend’ my ass! This was just some stupid, waste of time  _ game! Gods-dammit!” _

“As entertaining as it is to watch you break your toes on an ancient artifact,” Lydia interrupted her rant, “are you going to go?”

“What choice do I have? I need to meet with Paarthurnax so I can put this rubbish behind me and get on with my life.” Skjor and Aela, too, waited for her.

“But what if it’s a trap?” she bent to soothe Bowin who had become agitated at his owner’s outburst.

She exhaled loudly, her breath tinged with the faintest hint of smoke in the damp air. It could be a set up, she made a good point. She was not quite inclined to believe it was, however, given that the inn was  _ technically _ in public and not exactly a dirty back alley. She was too pissed off to care about the logistics of traps and knives in the dark.

“Then they’ll get more than they bargained for, won’t they? I can’t believe this.” She stuffed the ruined note into a pocket in her cloak. “What a joke.”

First the Silver Hand at Dustman’s Cairn and now this? There had been too much interference; somebody was sticking their nose in where it didn’t belong and it was getting annoying. From now on, she resolved, if anyone got in her way, heads would roll.

  
  
  



	19. The Nature of Misdirection

When the pair emerged from the subterranean grotto, night had fallen and with it a chill, persistent mist obscured the world from their sight. It made the already sopping ground much more difficult to traverse and on several occasions the seething Dragonborn had to retrieve a boot and her dog from the muck’s sticky grip. It only soured her mood further and had her wanting to ignite everything she could see.

“Ismene.” Lydia’s voice was loud in the damp air. “Calm down. I can hear your teeth grinding.”

“Easy for you to say,” she grumbled inside her hood. “It’s not you getting jerked around by everyone and everything. I mean what’s the point? The Way of the Voice teaches pacifism and restraint, so what does fighting the undead have to do with that? Defeats the purpose if you ask me.”

“Aren’t I though?” she said wryly. “This has nothing to do with me at all, I’m here out of the goodness of my heart.”

“You’re here for the Jarl’s gold.”

“…Touché. So what now? Going up the mountain to give them a piece of your mind empty handed, or are you planning to confront this mysterious thief? …Or are we going to Morthal to get cleaned up? A nice mead might cool you off.”

“If you’re tired you can just say so,” she let out a clipped laugh. “I guess we need supplies too.”

“Thank the _gods_.”

Morthal wasn’t a terribly lengthy journey away from Ustengrav, but it was in an uproar when they arrived. A collection of nearly ten people were gathered outside the Jarl’s longhouse, each member bearing a torch and an angry expression. One man stood apart from the rest, verbally lambasting another who defended himself from the steps.

“…then the fire, now this!” he bellowed. “When’s she going to wake up and realize this place is going to shit?”

“I assure you, Jarl Ravencrone is doing what she can. We are handling the problem in a way that protects the townsfolk and doesn’t need to involve you as combatants.”

“Calling us weak now, are you housecarl?” 

“Our investigations have revealed vampire activity in the Hold.” He straightened a little when the other man blanched and recoiled. “As such we have two capable men from the Dawnguard on hire. Now please, return to your homes and try to get some rest.”

“That rinky-dink little start-up? You expect—”

“Let’s get inside before a fight breaks out,” Lydia said hurriedly, steering Ismene toward the inn by her shoulders.

“But why? I could use a good brawl to let out some steam.”

“ _That’s_ why. We’re here for a break, not to beat up the townsfolk. Or accidentally burn the place to the ground. In you go.”

“Okay _fine_ , Lydia Fun-Killer.” 

She made no further complaint, as the welcome dry warmth from the brightly crackling fire brought the fatigue out of her bones to burden her limbs like lead weights. She gingerly peeled off her sodden cloak and draped it over the back of the chair nearest to the hearth, which she planted herself in. Right as her eyes began to drift shut, loud, excited barking from the far corner of the room interrupted her dozing.

Bowin had decided to introduce himself to two black and white dogs by starting a play fight. She hoped it was _only_ for jest and not real aggression; he’d displayed some behaviours that concerned her since their reunion. Still, an Orc dressed in leather covered in small rectangular plates and an astonishing number of buckles seized each husky and swiftly brought them to heel. 

“You!” he commanded, “come get your mongrel and teach it some damn respect!”

Her irritation flared to life once again, accentuated by the well familiar pressure of her _Thu’um_ welling up between her ribs. _Mongrel?_ How dare he insult her sweet pup that way! She shot to her feet, intent on finding out how much force it would take to break his tusks.

_Show them the price of insolence._

“What did you say to me, buckle-boy?” He was lucky her hands were full of Bowin’s collar otherwise they would be in his face. “I’ll have you know this ‘mongrel’ comes from the finest stock of hunting hounds this side of Cyrodiil! Not like your—your gorgeous… well groomed… are they wearing _armour?_ ”

“Standard issue for all of the Dawnguard’s trained dogs,” he cracked his knuckles and shot off a warning glare that she returned but resumed his seat and gave the nearest husky a hearty pat on the side. “Armour, potions, crossbow. Isran protects his own.”

“Protects you and makes you feel weak about it.” Another man joined them, a Breton in the same gear, and handed the Orc a bottle of ale. He flashed a quick, winning smile and nodded to her. “Name’s Celann, and you’ve already met Durak. Forgive us for any trouble.”

“Trouble?” he scoffed, “ _she’s_ the one who stomped over here to pick a fight with _me!_ ”

“You go about insulting every woman you come across?” she snapped. Bowin growled for good measure.

“I didn’t insult _you_ , I called that walking hide rug as I see it. Mangy, poorly trained, fit for leather—” 

Ismene let go of her dog and lunged at him, a string of curses on her lips. He slammed his drink on the table, which nearly upended when he surged to his feet and charged her in kind. He was much bigger than she was, and stronger too, if the punch he thumped to her gut was any indication. Wheezing, she doubled back and sprung upward with a breathless uppercut. When the air rushed back into her lungs, a Shout came with it.

“ _FU_ —rhmmmph! _Lumya!_ Lmmph me hmm!” 

“No! Stop it!” Lydia held her fast in a crushing grip, hand clamped firmly over her mouth. “Stop! Ismene, _behave!_ Where is your head, huh?” She hissed in her ear, “is this worth painting the wall with his guts?”

Suddenly cold and utterly drained, she quit struggling, eyes widening in horror when her sense sank in. What had she nearly done? She’d almost lost control over her Voice in a _bar fight._ Over something so trivial—well maybe that wasn’t _quite_ the right word but nevertheless, no, not worth it.

“I—my apologies,” she choked out when she was free to. 

“You’re sorry? Too bad,” Durak grunted, smoothing back the pale hair that had come out of his ponytail. “That might have been a good fight. A warmup to the shit-show in store for us.”

Celann slowly took his seat again, having risen to get out of the way. He was eyeing the duo of women with a mix of interest and caution.

“There’s a lair of vampires just outside of Morthal,” he explained slowly when he was sure the situation had been diffused. “Apparently they’ve been slowly infiltrating the town with intent to turn the entire guard into cattle for their… well, you can imagine. Even culminated in turning a man into a thrall--he killed his whole family over it. Such a tragedy, wife and child burned alive and he ended up with a bolt through the eye.” Seeing Ismene's curiosity, he pulled out a single short arrow with a thick head from the holster at his hip and handed it to her. “Crossbow. Packs a bit more punch than your standard bow.”

“Celann, you trying to recruit while we’re on the job?” Durak snorted. 

“We need more people without a background in the Vigil,” he explained. “Isran’s worried it’s starting to become a competition, what with the rumours they’ve been flirting with those rogue werewolf hunters. He thinks they’re trying to one-up him.”

“He’s paranoid about everything, sure, but that’s ridiculous.”

"Is it? Not sure that the slaughter at the Hall we found was an isolated event. They're a dwindling breed."

The rest of their conversation faded into noise as the faces of two Vigilants of Stendarr with silver laced weapons returned to her with stunning clarity. She needed to probe them for information without inspiring too much suspicion in Lydia. He described it as rumour, but it certainly confirmed what she and Skjor had assumed.

“Werewolf hunters eh?” she examined a loose rivet on one bracer, trying to appear nonchalant. “Wonder how much they pay.”

“Make no mistake,” Celann’s eyes narrowed. “If they were working together, the Vigil will have had them under their thumb. Either there’s been an outbreak—like the vampires, hence the reformation of the Dawnguard—or someone’s caught wind of a significant threat. Something they can’t handle by themselves.”

_Like the Companions for instance?_ Ismene thought. _Or is there something else going on? Skjor and Aela have kept what they know close to the chest and these two aren’t letting on either._

“Werewolves, vampires, doesn’t matter what it is. We’re taking back the night, you in?” Durak grinned, showing off his prominent teeth. “We’ll try ya out and show you back to the Fort in Riften… if you survive.”

“Would that we could,” she replied. “Got business that can’t wait. If I make my way out near there I’ll see.” She could already picture how Bowin would look in the dogs’ armour and gods take her if she wasn’t practically salivating at the thought of using a crossbow.

The problem was that she didn’t know what she’d have to do once she met with Paarthurnax and there was no point in making promises. 

###########

It was with fury and haste that Ismene and Lydia made the journey south from Hjaalmarch to Riverwood, running where they could and cutting down obstacles where they couldn’t. A dragon’s roar echoed overhead and they watched it circle high above, but as if sensing her ire, it elected not to bother the incensed Dragonborn. Just as well, she figured, there were only two of them and a large part of her was still afraid to face one without an army at her side.

The rest thought it was smart not to challenge her to its inevitable death. Not worth _her_ effort.

She rushed up the steps to the inn, brushing past the usual morning drunk who was being harassed by Stump the dog. Her cloak billowed behind her and came back to cluster at her ankles when she stopped inside, letting the door close noisily behind. Her eyes swept the room, settling on each face in turn. Ognar sat at the bar looking bored as ever, Sven the bard tuned his lute, and the blonde innkeeper stood near the door with that always present mistrustful expression.

One of these people had a small chance of holding enough skill to spelunk through Ustengrav, as unbelievable as it seemed. One of them was in for a tongue lashing, with a healthy side of the Voice.

“I hope you’re not here to cause trouble.” Her grip on the broom she was using shifted, as if she was preparing to wield it like a blade. 

“I’m looking for a _friend_ ,” Ismene explained. Her eyes glittered with irritation. Not in the mood for niceties, she got straight to the point. “They’re due in town, but for now I’m feeling a little tired. If it’s free, mind renting me the attic room?”

“We don’t _have_ an attic room.” Her face didn’t change, but her fingers tightened on the broomstick. She gave it an idle sweep or two, and her tone held an edge to it when she spoke next. “Whoever told you we did needs their vision checked, there’s not even a second floor. But, since you’re in the market for a bed I’ll show you to one that does exist. Come with me.” Her manner of speech left little room for dissent.

The way she carried herself as she led them raised a red flag in the back of her mind. Far gone was the clumsy Breton who dropped tableware or bashfully apologized to her patrons. In her place was a sharp-eyed woman who walked like a warrior.

“Close the door.”

Once she shuffled in, Lydia shut it with a snap.

“Start talking,” Ismene demanded. 

“Calm yourself,” she held up one hand while the other disappeared into the pocket of her apron. Was she reaching for a blade? No, she withdrew a set of keys and used them to unlock a strongbox hidden inside a locked drawer with a false bottom. From it she pulled a curled horn that was blackened by age. She tossed it to the tense Companion, who caught it with surprise.

“So it was _you?_ What was the point of sending us on a wild goose chase like that? Who are you? What do you want?”

“I had to make sure the rumours I was hearing were true and that they weren’t started by the Thalmor. My name is Delphine and I’m one of the last—if not _the_ last—members of a group that’s been looking for you—or at least someone _like_ you—for a long time,” she started. She jerked her chin in Lydia’s direction. “Can she be trusted?”

“Can _you?_ ” Ismene shot back. What in Oblivion did the bloody _Thalmor_ have to do with this? The Horn was a Greybeard artifact and had nothing to do with the Empire; as far as she was aware Jurgen Windcaller lived before its founding, at the very least earlier than the Dominion. And what group had an interest in her? To what end? Access to the ‘power’ she supposedly wielded? 

_If they want it so bad, they can take it,_ she thought.

Delphine ignored her question. 

“I won’t say I wasn’t expecting you of all people to turn up, after overhearing your little talk with Gerdur’s brother awhile back. That word sounded remarkably similar to the Dragon Tongue, but then again, it also wouldn’t surprise me if other affinities to it existed. Just look at Windhelm’s ‘noble’ loud-mouth of a Jarl. Can you do it though? Absorb a dragon’s soul? Are you _really_ Dragonborn?”

Her face scrunched into a scowl. She scarcely remembered any of those first days beyond how horrible she’d felt, and it bothered her greatly that she had kept that close attention. 

“Well the Greybeards seem to think so,” she answered, feeling an odd sense of deja-vu. “And as for the rest, yeah I can.” She woke up some nights craving the feeling the souls gave her. “What’s the point of all this? How can I be sure you didn’t lure me here to get rid of me? Apparently not everyone’s so keen on a Dragonborn walking the earth.” _Myself included._

“If that were the case I wouldn’t have bothered leading you onto my soil,” Delphine said dryly. She twiddled with the keyring. “The Greybeards’ word isn’t worth much to me. They’re so disconnected I doubt they’d recognize a true Dragonborn if they waltzed up and shaved their faces. I want to see it done.”

“I don’t have to prove anything to you!” she snapped. “You haven’t explained shit to me, and all you’ve proven yourself to be is a huge inconvenience. Tell me what you want from me right now, or I walk.”

“Alright you little upstart,” her voice grew dangerously sharp, “obviously you have no idea what kind of responsibility you really have, so let me spell it out for you. You, as Dragonborn—let’s assume—are the _only_ one that can kill a dragon _permanently_.”

Ismene’s mouth went dry and her stomach dropped through the floor. She’d always known that the title was a big deal—legendary even, and nobody else was dismissive of it as she was. But this? She never would have imagined.

“Is that true?” Lydia asked, sounding hesitant. 

“Completely.” Delphine looked like a cat standing before its trapped prey. “As long as a dragon’s soul still exists in the ether, it can be reattached to its body. Kind of like a reverse soul-trap, making a Dragonborn a sort of… living soul gem. Or so the tales all say.”

“So that means…”

“It’s up to you to put a stop to this.”

She thought of how Aela had described the aftermath of the battle in Falkreath, that there had been enough time for the town to carve up the body like a Harvest feast. How long would it take for that dragon to come back, if she was correct? And would the pieces convalesce like mended pottery? Or would it create that many more dragons?

“So…” she rasped through a tight throat, “who’s bringing them back to life?”

For the first time, Delphine faltered. 

“Well that’s just it. I don’t know—but I have a theory. Who stands to gain from the wholesale destruction the dragons bring? Who wants to see the Stormcloaks shit themselves when a legend decimates their forces? Or more accurately causes irreversible chaos?”

“The Legion?” Lydia guessed.

“Think a little deeper. Not the puppets, but the ones pulling the strings. The Thalmor.”

“That’s enough of that, I think,” Ismene cut in irritably. She’d been on the verge of taking the yarn until she said that. “You all but forced us here to discuss conspiracy theories? And why would they bother exploiting our mythology when they’ve already outlawed our god? Surely that would reinforce Ulfric’s argument for the righteous.”

“Watch how you say that. They could have ears anywhere.”

“They already tried cutting off my head once, and for much less. Let ‘em come after me, I’m due some payback.” 

“So then join me,” Delphine’s eyes took on a deadly shine as she spoke. “I’ve been able to trace the locations of dragon burials—from the Dragonstone you retrieved—” she held up a hand to stop her from speaking when her face morphed into a furious glare. “—Which I thank you for. Anyway, I’ve noticed a pattern and I’ve extrapolated they’ll hit Kynesgrove next.”

“Why there?” Lydia whispered in horror. 

“Why build a settlement where a dragon was interred?” she asked sarcastically. “‘Ifs’, ‘hows’, and ‘whys’ are redundant at this point. We have all the information we need,” she buried a fist in her other palm with a harsh slap, “and we need to strike while the iron is hot. This is on _you_ now.”

“No.”

“Excellent, we’ll— _what?_ ”

“I said _‘no’_ ,” Ismene’s voice went cold. “I want no part of this madness. I’m going to take back the Horn, and the Greybeards’ master is going to teach me how to subdue what’s inside me. Then it’ll be over.”

“You stupid girl! Don’t you get it? The dragons—!”

“—Showed up _long_ after I was born. If I was really put on this earth to fight them, wouldn’t there have been some sign before now? I won’t run from one if I see it, but beyond that? Forget we ever had this conversation.”

“Your ignorance will be our undoing.”

“Why should I put any trust in what you’ve told me?” she seethed. “So you had the Horn. You could have hired any number of mercenaries to get it. Hell, _I_ was hired to find the bloody stone! All this talk about Thalmor controlling and resurrecting dragons makes me think you’ve been drinking your own bathwater.” She retreated to the door and opened it. “I’d thank you for your help but frankly your customer service leaves much to be desired. Keep the gold, maybe consider buying some help.”

Delphine gave her a glacial stare, but she was unfazed. 

“If you really are the one the gods picked for this role, they prove yet again to have a terrible sense of humour.”

Although she could agree, Ismene didn’t dignify the statement with a response, choosing to let it hang between them as she left the room and quickly after the inn entirely. She glared resolutely at the flagstones that paved Riverwood’s only road as her feet all but stomped over them. It could all lay behind her if not for that meddlesome basket case. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself and push aside the desire to Shout something into ash.

On some level she was fully aware she’d overreacted but she couldn’t bring herself to care. It took a hand grabbing her elbow to realize someone had been talking to her as she walked.

“Someone’s calling you,” Lydia said rather crossly. She pointed in the direction of a man jogging up the path. Most of his face was obscured by the shaggy bear skin draped over his head. “Do you know him, or should I send him on his way?”

Ismene squinted, and it wasn’t until he spoke again that she recognized him.

“For a moment there, I feared you’d gone hard of hearing since last we met.” A smile peeked through the bear’s teeth.

“Ralof,” she greeted, accepting his hands and squeezing before following him to perch on the edge of the Riverwood Trader’s porch. “That’s an interesting look on you, I approve.”

“Ah,” he cleared his throat and she couldn’t help noticing his posture rigidify slightly. “I received a field promotion for… my efforts at Helgen. I’m now one of four men who oversee the Whiterun camp. Jarl Ulfric feels I have a vested interest in the Hold.” He coughed. “My family, of course.”

“Of course,” she concurred, grinning. “You wanted to be there for them and now you can. I’m proud of you, for what it’s worth.” She leaned back so he could get a good view of the woman beside her. “This is Lydia, by the way.”

He tugged off the animal hood and reached across Ismene to grip her arm. His normally bright eyes were muddy and deep bags hung below them. “I’ve heard a bit about you, all fantastic things. But that reminds me, you’ve been made a Thane! And a Companion! How did you manage it? Not of course that I don’t think you could…”

“Oh that? Balgruuf was so grateful for my news, um, about the attack that he anointed me as such,” she lied. Well, partially. Ralof didn’t know she was Dragonborn and it would stay that way for now. “Haven’t done anything with it and I probably won’t, and I feel I’m still earning my place in Jorrvaskr.”

“Is that right?” He paused, looking like he was choosing his words carefully. “I suppose that means you were in the city when the watchtower was attacked.”

“She helped the guards f— _oof!_ ” Lydia wheezed, getting Ismene's elbow in her ribs. It was too late, he had caught on. 

“So you would have seen the Dragonborn!”

She winced. “You know about that?”

“Ismene, _everybody_ knows about that. By the Nine, we all heard the Greybeards' call, it’s the talk of Skyrim!” He gripped her knee excitedly. “Even rumours have boosted our men’s morale—so, who is it?”

She couldn’t speak past the lump in her throat, so she looked away, eyes hard. That lie would be too big, and she didn’t want to put it between them.

His touch became much lighter.

“It’s you, isn’t it?”

He took her continued silence as a confirmation and drew her into an awkward, one armed hug that felt stifling. She was waiting for him to ask why she hadn’t done anything at Helgen to fight that dragon, but he didn’t. She was sure he wanted to, though.

“How did your brother take the news?”

Her scowl lifted into shock.

“You met with Svein?” she asked in disbelief. “You didn’t go looking for him, did you?”

“No, no. He’s a messenger and he showed up at my camp a few days ago. I sent him into Whiterun to see you.”

“What?” This time it was Lydia who spoke her surprise, but her tone was lined with hostility. “You sent a rebel agent into the city where they’re not allowed? How dare you—”

“Lydia, please,” Ismene interrupted, trying to soothe her. “Svein Haugen is no assassin in disguise. He’s…” He was still alive, for one, and it brought her immeasurable relief. “He’s trying his best.”

“And a relative of a Thane, no rules against that,” Ralof added, the corner of his mouth quirking when the housecarl huffed in defeat. “He’s gone back to the Rift now, though he said he left a note for you. Not terribly impressed with your comrades, I heard.”

“I wasn’t either, at first.” Well, now she might have to go home before traveling to High Hrothgar again, instead of turning around and heading to Ivarstead. “I know it seems like I ask something of you every time we meet, but… will you look after Svein? Maybe train him a bit better so he can defend himself? He isn’t much of a fighter.”

“Why not do so yourself?” Ralof faced her but kept his gaze somewhere around her nose. “You’re back on your feet and look much stronger—we need you, Ismene.”

“No, you don’t. One person—no matter what title they hold—isn’t going to change the tide of the war, and that’s if they were even interested. I told you before, and my mind hasn’t changed.”

He exhaled heavily, eyes flicking to the ground and back. 

“Jarl Ulfric believes otherwise. We all know what the Voice can do.”

“So why the hell doesn’t he crawl out of his hidey-hole in Windhelm and use it?”

“If we have you, he thinks the Legion will break in fear. This all could be over, your family would be safe!”

She gaped at him, thunderstruck.

“Are you using my brother as _leverage_ , Ralof?”

He flinched as if she’d slapped him.

“Of course I’m not! I wouldn’t—I’m not…” he dragged his hands over his face. “Their faces, the men… when they heard the Greybeards, they took it that the gods had sent us a sign, you know. That everything would turn out for the best. That we were doing the right thing.”

It sounded to her like the rebellion was a lot more bark than bite.

“I told you, Ralof. I don’t want any part in a war I didn’t ask for, and I don’t appreciate being involved in it anyway!”

“They don’t know who you are—”

“Ulfric Stormcloak seems to.”

His mouth closed with a snap.

“…Yes. He does.” He quieted again, and toyed with one of the claws hanging from his hood. “Could you… at least talk to Jarl Balgruuf? About lending his aid? You’re a Thane—”

“—stop.” She stood abruptly, prompting Bowin to huff in alarm. She didn’t placate him, rather she fought to keep herself from glaring at Ralof when her chest filled with fire. Had he checked in on her just to ask this? And now he—or was it under Ulfric’s direction?—wished her to abuse what little clout she held. “Whiterun… Whiterun’s the one place in Skyrim that a person can go to escape this madness. From either side. Don't you respect that?” _Don't you respect me?_

He shot to his feet and struggled to refrain from taking her shoulders, but his posture was without aggression. He looked desperate.

Was this the real terms of his promotion? What was really going on here? Had he been threatened?

“It’s also the one place that will determine the outcome of the war. It would give us the majority if it nests under our banner... This might be the last chance to take the city peacefully. The Jarl, he… is running out of patience for negotiation.”

“They’ve been waging war without it, so if you ask me they could win or lose without it, too. Even if other Holds are lending their support, at the end of the day we’re still part of the Empire, and Ulfric is not High King.” She was done discussing this, and would rather not continue, lest she say or do something that could hurt him.

What happened to their bond being simple and lighthearted?

“So that’s it, then?” He sounded weary. “There’s nothing I can do to convince you?”

“Not a damn thing. Leave it be.”

“For what it’s worth—I’m sorry. I’ll tell Svein I saw you, if we meet again.”

“Fine.” Her eyes were piercing. “But if he dies because of this war… You can be sure I’ll pay Ulfric a visit, then.” 

  
  
  
  



	20. The Nature of Aversion

Her eyes roved over her brother’s familiar scrawl yet another time and her ribs clenched around the distemper Ralof’s pleas left coiled in her chest. So he’d told Svein about Helgen, had he? What else had he let slip? Given the affable lilt to the words, it was unlikely that he’d mentioned anything regarding the deaths of her partners. That was good. She still didn’t know just what to say to him on that matter, but it appeared now that day was fast approaching.

Would mourning with him bring her closure, or rip her open again? Selfish as she knew it was to let him live carrying false hopes, she wasn’t ready for either.

Not to face the pain, and not to let them go.

With a shaky sigh, she kneaded her temples, elbows planted on the tabletop. She chose to take comfort in the creak of the chair next to her and Lydia’s quiet noises of sympathy.

“So…” Across the hearth sitting at the other side of the long table, Ria asked, “how come you’ve never talked about your brother?”

“She hasn’t mentioned much else, and it’s not our place to pry.” From the bench behind, Skjor’s voice was almost scolding.

“It’s alright,” Ismene breathed, tucking the letter away. She’d noticed how Ria had practically vibrated with curiosity the entire time she’d been reading. And re-reading. “My family’s fairly estranged, but he and I keep correspondence every so often.” Except when she kept things from him. “You know how it is. The son supports the opposite side of the war as the father, the mother resents him for it, and the daughter wants nothing to do with either, which is just as damning.”

“Oh.”

“Can’t say I blame you,” Skjor grunted. “Politics is a sticky business on the best of days, and too much of that loyalty breeds pigheadedness. Look at those two clans of fools here in Whiterun. Tearing apart ancient alliances for what? It’s all rubbish.”

“Don’t let Vignar hear you say that. Or Eorlund for that matter.”

“If they were sensible they’d agree, but their actions speak for them. Even the best of men bend to imprudence.” He shrugged. “Stay true to each other, hear me? That goes for all of you.”

There was no worry of that. In a relatively short time she’d grown attached to this place and the people in it. It was hard to imagine what life would be like without them, besides cold and empty. As much as the thought warmed her, it terrified her as well. Her nightmares had begun to include them during the ambush, standing in for Kjell, as if the paralyzing flashbacks in Dustman’s Cairn hadn’t been enough.

Skjor stood and beckoned her. “You’re with me today, so let’s take advantage of the good weather before you disappear again, eh?”

########

“Please tell me,” Lydia wheezed, pulling her battle axe out of the monster’s corpse, “that there isn’t going to be a frost troll on this route every time we come here?”

“Arngeir told me that Master Wulfgar breeds them.” Ismene stowed her bow and checked Bowin for injuries, stifling a laugh at the horror on her face. “Relax, I’m kidding. If we’re lucky, this will be our last visit.”

“Gods be praised. Do you want me to wait for you in Ivarstead?”

“You hate their food that much, do you?”

Her cheeks coloured, and she smiled sheepishly. 

Ismene patted her on the back. “Let’s get this over with then, and I’ll track us up something good.”

“Choice boar.”

“What?”

“That’s what I’ll be craving when we get home.”

“Picky. Fine.”

The hinges of the great metal doors were no quieter than last time, but the silence inside was just as stifling. The foyer was devoid of Greybeards, as was the rest of the monastery, and their search led them out to the courtyard, which was bathed in the fiery hues of mid-evening.

Three of the wisemen stood in a cluster around a lit brazier while the fourth stood apart, near a rugged stone arch at the far end of the space.

“… _ VAH KOOR! _ ” he Shouted, and for a second the dying sunlight looked somehow more vivid.

In the moment she wished she’d caught the first word of the Shout, and that she’d kept up with her studies of _Dovahzul_. Hopefully he wouldn't ask.

“Master Arngeir!” she called out, waving when one hooded head turned in her direction. The others beside him bowed.

“Ah, Dragonborn,” he greeted as he approached. “Were you successful in retrieving the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller?”

She produced the artifact, which he accepted with all the reverence she had anticipated.

“As expected. You have done well to manage this.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she frowned, batting back the flicker of anger Delphine’s unwelcome interference still inspired, days later. “Someone beat me to the punch, figuratively speaking.”

In the depths of his hood, his eyes narrowed. 

“I see. Then it is fortunate this individual was charitable enough to relinquish it.”

“‘Charitable’ isn’t the word, either.”

“Even so.” He waved for the others to follow as he began the walk back inside. “It means you have completed the final trial and thus are worthy of learning the final Word to  _ Unrelenting Force _ .”

And that meant she would finally be allowed to meet Paarthurnax. A normal life was so close now she could taste it.

Giddy with anticipation, she eagerly took her place in the circle that assembled around the pool of light in the main hall.

“It falls to me to impart this knowledge onto you. Are you prepared to accept it?”

“I’m ready.”

“The final Word, which will amplify the power of the Shout considerably, is  _ ‘dah,’ _ which means ‘push’. Hear it within yourself now, Dragonborn, and understand.”

His hands slid out of his sleeves as he braced his arms at his sides. He took a deep breath and spoke as calmly as the Voice would allow.

“ _ DAH _ .”

Hearing it invoked the memory of the Thu’um-wielding draugr she fought in Bleak Falls Barrow, which seemed so distant now. She could feel a pair of phantom hands pressing hard into her back though no part of her body moved. The aspect of this Word, no matter who intoned it, was purely physical. It was the desire to move, and the will to stay put. 

The last word clicked in with its fellows instantly, and their essence certainly felt stronger—but also experienced, somehow. They hummed under her sternum in harmony, confident in what they could achieve and sat patiently awaiting her call.

Right away all four Greybeards began to recite a proclamation in the Dragon Tongue at a volume that staggered her where she stood and coaxed dust to fall from the ceiling. The flicker of feeling lost in the words she couldn’t make out returned, though she thought she caught  _ ‘Ysmir’ _ somewhere in the speech that rocked the mountainside. She wondered what significance it held, but couldn't bring herself to care enough to ask. It didn't matter, in the end.

When she opened her eyes, Arngeir was giving her a solemn yet knowing look.

“With the completion of this Shout, we formally recognize you as Dragonborn, for all of Skyrim to hear. From this point forward, High Hrothgar is open to you; home if you so choose, and our teachings are yours when needed.” He bowed at the waist. “We are honoured to share all we can. However, I must ask this of you: have you reconsidered your path?”

She frowned.

“What do you mean by ‘reconsider’? There’s no path to change, it ends here.”

“So the journey we directed you on has indeed taught you nothing.”

“I’ll learn what I need to when you tell me the way to Paarthurnax.”

He shook his head inside his hood.

“I cannot.”

“Why? I passed your trials, didn’t I? You taught me the words! What was that about ‘High Hrothgar being open to me’?” She seethed, ready to spit fire in an instant. 

“We have pledged our unconditional assistance to you this is true, but since last we took counsel together, I have spent long hours in rumination upon what to do about your…  _ reluctance _ for the Way and your gift,” he kept his hands inside his sleeves and his shoulders relaxed, but his eyes were stony. “It teaches that you must Speak only when it is needed, indeed, however to outright refuse what you have been given is liken to reject Akatosh and even Kyne herself. Your destiny is yours to do with what you choose—that may be, however, it is oft something one meets on the road to avoid it. We would not have you be unprepared for that day when it arrives, whatever it may hold.”

She flinched heavily. Over the years she had put great faith in the goddess, hoping to someday be worthy of Her Trials, and she suspected Bowin’s survival had not wholly been the result of his own instincts. Hearing him accuse her of such a thing was like a hard kick in the ribs courtesy of a spooked horse.

To stay there and live under the yoke of strict meditation and study for the foreseeable remainder of her life as they wanted her to do would be throwing away everything—and probably every _ one _ —she loved. And, indentured as she was as her housecarl, Ismene couldn't subject Lydia to it either, knowing the vibrant affection her friend harboured for Whiterun, and certain people under its banner. That would be cruel beyond measure. The Companions, perhaps, would miss her for awhile, but in time she would surely fade from their memory. That particular truth inspired the hollowness in her chest to return.

And yet, the very idea of considering doing what Arngeir expected of her made her skin crawl, much as the years of lessons her mother subjected her to in her youth had. She was once more consumed by the ghost of that bitter rebellion.

“You told me your master has great insight into what I am,” her words were just as stinging, “you won’t let me meet with him, and I’ve found someone who seems to think they know the same. I came back here because I trusted  _ you _ .”

Arngeir exchanged a sparing glance with Borri, who signed back. 

“There have been many among us who spent their entire lives within these walls that did not earn the right to speak with Paarthurnax. There have been no exceptions, no matter who the individual may be, nor what powers they wield. Your temperament, unless it improves, bars you.” 

Pressure built in the back of her head, fanning the flames of her rage and feeding her crushing disappointment. How could he! He didn’t  _ understand  _ what this meant for her, how terrified she really was. 

_ Bend them to your will. Force their hands to carry out your bidding _ .

If she was so naturally gifted in the Voice, she’d be able to Shout them off the mountain, couldn’t she? See how fast they’d change their minds then, when faced with that brand of threat.

_ No-one can stop you. _

_ I’ll show them. _

“Dragonborn!” Arngeir cut through her intrusive thoughts like a forge-hot blade in a snowball. “Calm yourself,  _ immediately! _ There has not ever, and  _ will  _ never be violence in these halls!” 

“So you’re dooming me to walk blindly in this role, then?” she choked. “What am I supposed to do?” 

_ Help me understand! _

_ No, leave me alone! _

She felt like she had when she was a little girl, the same sense of being squeezed between walls that were closing in, only this time they would crush her.

“Your accusations go too far.” He was placid, like the frigid waters of a black lake. It was the same tone of poised disapproval her mother had been fond of. “If your path with us must end here, so be it. It is with regret that I ask that you leave this place, not to return until you are ready to accept the Way and find wisdom once more. The fury living in you shall serve only to blacken the stones and muffle our communion with the Divines. We will not be responsible for supplying yet another who seeks to misuse their Voice.”

So, because of what Ulfric Stormcloak chose to do they were going to turn their backs on her?

Unable to form words past the jagged glass that lined her throat, she hid her fear contorted face by turning sharply on her heel and bursting through the doors back out into the biting wind. The frosty skies did little to cool her mood nor did the thin air carry the weight away from her shoulders. 

“Ismene, slow down! Where are you going?” Lydia called after her.

“To find a road and follow it forever.” One that would lead her to the horizon and beyond, someplace she wouldn't have to look back from.

“What? No—stop! Come back! You can’t be serious!”

Fists tightening in the folds of her cloak, she whipped around. The cold air stung her moist cheeks. Her behaviour might be seen as childish by those unable to understand her, but she didn’t care, she couldn't see past her own despair.

“All my life someone’s been telling me _ ‘no you can’t’ _ or that what I want is  _ wrong _ . Saying I’m too irresponsible and foolish to choose my own way,  _ whatever _ that could be. I’m tired of it!” she hollered.

“This is different!”

“No it isn’t!”

“It is. The  _ gods _ chose you!” 

“But why?” Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the whistling wind. “Wouldn’t they have been better off with someone strong? With a  _ real _ warrior?”

“But you  _ are  _ strong. I’ve seen what you’re capable of, and you want to defend people, or am I wrong?”

She did, especially her loved ones. Heat flickered in her chest when she envisioned battling one of those scaly horrors in their defense. The ever-present, phantom craving for the power of the dragon souls buzzed between the fibres of her muscles.

“There are plenty of people that believe in you,” Lydia continued, firmly placing both hands on her shoulders. “And if you’re concerned about doing it alone, don’t. I’ll be with you every step of the way. I've got your back.”

“But what if you die? I can’t—can’t let anything happen to you.”

She grinned.

“They won’t get the best of me, and you can put money on that.” She slung an arm around her neck and slowly guided the both of them down toward the start of the mountain path. “ _ I’m _ supposed to be the one protecting  _ you _ . Don’t worry so much.”

“Lydia… you… you have no idea how much that means to me, do you?” She leaned her head against her shoulder, heart swelling with appreciation for the person that walked at her side. This time around she was going to do everything in her growing ability to safeguard that, Divines help whatever came between them. “I’m very happy that you’re my friend, you know.”

Her steps faltered for a second but her gentle headlock tightened into a one-armed hug.

##########

A small smile stretched Ismene’s mouth when the gates of Whiterun came into view, though it was more out of getting back to routine than fondness. Once she was tucked safely behind the walls and put away a couple—or more—bottles of ale she could wash away the anxiety both Arngeir and Delphine had stirred up. So what if she wasn’t allowed guidance from ‘too-special-for-you’ Paarthurnax, whoever  _ he  _ was. That just meant there was less jargon for her to swallow, less she would have to forget.

And dragons? Being resurrected? What insane children’s story had the so-called innkeeper taken  _ that  _ from?

Squeezing out the tension from her joints as she walked, she sighed, “home sweet home. I can’t wait to hear what kind of mischief the others have been up to.”

“It’ll be nice to get some real sleep,” Lydia agreed, yawning. 

“'Sleep,’ huh. I’m sure Hrongar missed you too.”

“Shhh!” She went brick red and glared daggers at her. “I told you about that in strictest confidence and the last thing I need is  _ someone  _ shooting her mouth off and everyone finding out.”

“But what an epic love story! A forbidden, secret romance between the housecarl of a lesser Thane and the Jarl’s brother, even if he is kind of an— _ ouch! _ Okay, okay!” Grinning, Ismene rubbed the shoulder she had punched. “I’ll stop. Wouldn’t want to feed any of the gossiping hens on patrol. There’s enough of them out tonight.”

“Yeah it’s a little strange; why are there so many?” Her voice took on a perturbed edge. “Something’s wrong. The last time there was this much steel at the gates…”

“A dragon attacked.”

“I was going to bring up the assassin Ulfric Stormcloak sent to kill Balgruuf, but that too.”

“Excuse me, the  _ what? _ ”

“Stop right there, stay where you are!” One of the many guards hurried toward them as they approached the monumental doors, though his sword remained in its home at his hip. 

“Whatever it is, I’m innocent I swear!” she protested, holding her hands up at eye level, palms facing him. With an awkward jerk of her arm, she lightly elbowed Lydia, “back me up here.”

“What are you on about?” The guard did not sound amused. “You’re the Dragonborn, and the new Thane, aren’t you? Jarl Balgruuf has been looking for you. Go to Dragonsreach right away.”

“It’s the middle of the night, why—”

“Now!”

A sinking feeling pooled in her guts and the queasiness resurfaced worse than before. What was going on, and why did it have anything to do with her? If it were another dragon, surely the gold-clad platoon on display could handle it, couldn’t they? Or her shield-siblings for that matter; some of them already held victories of that kind. If the city planned on waiting for her to show up whenever a dragon was spotted, they would be inviting disaster.

The brisk jog through town and up to Dragonsreach was tense and silent. Even the cursory glance she’d spared to Jorrvaskr—which was in its typical state for that time of night—hadn’t eased her stomach. Inside the palace, it was much the same as it had been that day, but fear permeated the air like a sickness and instead of battle ready staff, a number of the maids and other workers sat huddled at the tables with their families. Other Thanes were present as well; she spotted Nazeem holding his wife, whispering to her softly as she clung to him.

Out of nowhere, Ismene was flanked by Proventus Avenicci. 

“What’s happened?” she demanded in a harsh whisper.

“No time to explain that now, come with me.” He clamped a hand around her upper arm and held out the other to stay Lydia when she advanced on him. 

“Am I in trouble?”

“We’re  _ all  _ in trouble,” he said cryptically. Without letting go, he nearly dragged her past the throne, up the stairs through the map room and into the Jarl’s apartments. She’d never been this far inside the citadel, but was given no opportunity to take in her surroundings, finally released when they passed the doors to one of the innermost chambers.

To the side were both Balgruuf and Irileth, each standing in stony silence as they stared at the bed against the far wall. A prone form lay in it, their identity obscured by the stark white bandages that wrapped the entire left side of their body. An elderly man with graying hair wearing a worn tunic sat in a chair beside the bed, holding the figure’s free hand in both of his, tears shining on his sunken cheeks. Behind him a younger man stood vigil, pointedly trying not to look at the stump hanging from his own shoulder.

“Thane Ismene,” the Jarl's soft voice mitigated the occasional sob the old man let out. His mouth was set in a hard frown, his eyes heavy with burden.

“What happened?” she murmured, unable to meet his gaze for more than a fleeting moment. “Who… are those people?”

“The woman in the bed…” The muscles jumped in his jaw and he struggled with something unseen. “Is Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone, those men are her husband and housecarl. Morthal…”

“Morthal has been destroyed.”

  
  
  
  



	21. The Nature of Consequence

The stoic man missing an arm had left the bedside and joined them by the door. Up close, he was far more haggard and his injuries were worse than just the limb. A livid red streak bisected his face, cutting across where his eye used to be and continued below the neckline of his shirt. It was difficult to imagine how he’d survived them at all.

“What do you mean? How?” Ismene could not believe her ears. “The war?” 

“Dragons.”

The temperature of the room seemed to drop below freezing.

“As in… more than one?”

“It was a nightmare,” he croaked, sinking into a nearby chair. He hunched over, cradling his head in his only hand. “Absolute decimation. At first it was only one. We…” he took a shuddering breath, “we thought we could fight it off. If the Whiterun guards had done it, so could ours. The battle… was difficult. A few buildings caught fire, and too many men had fallen to the beast, though we were successful, in the end. But then…”

His breathing grew laboured and his entire body shook. It took several long moments before he was able to calm himself enough to continue.

“The second one showed up. It came from the blackness like some kind of demon coughed up by Oblivion itself. Monstrous and horrifying, with scales so dark it made the night sky look like day. It… landed on the inn and crushed it like paper and watched us. Sat like an ugly gargoyle and stared with those devilish, glowing eyes… I—I’ll never forget them, _never._ ” 

He began to hyperventilate again.

“Irileth, get him water, please!” Balgruuf ordered, crouching to place a soothing hand on the man’s back. “Try to relax, Gorm.”

He accepted the mug she brought in and gulped down whatever hadn’t been splashed on the floor by his trembling hand. When he pulled his heaving breaths under some semblance of control, he went on.

“It did little but stare until the first dragon was killed. Then it… flew around as though _taunting_ us. Our weapons did nothing. Arrows bounced off or broke like we were shooting the side of a mountain. It was just as big as one. And then it… spoke, in some evil tongue. I—I can’t describe what happened after that. I think… the other dragon _rose from the dead_ and it… attacked as though it had never been wounded. But we felled it again. Then… then the second one went after us. It called down fire from the sky and snapped up our men like it was some kind of sick game. We didn’t stand a chance. It was a miracle the three of us got out alive. I don’t think there are other survivors, but by the Eight I hope there are.”

Gorm sat back in his chair, lone eye fixed blankly up to the rafters. His white knuckled hand was clenched over his stump and his pale face shone with sweat. He carried on speaking in a near monotone, staring into nothingness.

“Where? Where was this so called ‘Dragonborn,’ this mighty hero at whose feet these beasts are supposed to fall? We’ve all heard tales of this person but now… I don’t think he exists. If he did, how could he have let us die?”

Without excusing herself, she fled the room and pushed out the nearest door, which led onto a balcony overlooking the city. Before the doors shut behind her, she sank to her knees and emptied her stomach into a potted plant. Choking, she broke down sobbing, and didn’t notice someone approach until her fingers were peeled away from the lip of the planter and she was brought to her feet and pulled against an armoured chest.

“She was right, _she was right!_ ” she wailed. “It’s my fault!”

“Ismene, _don’t_ ,” Lydia pleaded as she tucked her hair back away from her face. “Don’t do this. There’s no way you could have known.”

“We—we were, we were _just there!_ If we had have—had stayed to help with, with the vampires we would have…” Gasping, she dug her nails into her own belly. “Been there! To stop that! It’s—Helgen, again! _They’re all dead!_ ”

She’d been so angry that a stranger, and perhaps the Greybeards, had wasted her time at Ustengrav that she’d selfishly ignored a town’s plea for help. Perhaps the pair from the Dawnguard had been successful, but ultimately it didn’t matter. There was no more Morthal for vampires to prey upon. 

_Only a Dragonborn can permanently kill a dragon._

That was her. And her alone.

Knowingly or not, that blood was now on her hands. 

######

The next morning Ismene woke feeling just as sick as she had falling asleep. Calling it rest was, of course, a stretch; she’d risen twice before dawn nearly drowning in her own tears. Every time she closed her eyes the image of Jarl Ravencrone’s distraught husband clouded her sight, and Gorm’s terror-stricken voice filled her hearing. Lydia had done her part to assure her that she wasn’t responsible, but she couldn’t stop blaming herself.

Arngeir had been right, too. By doing nothing with her gift, she’d spat in the face of the gods, and now innocent lives were paying for it. 

_I couldn’t save Kjell and Leaves. And I walked away from those people too._

_The_ dov _will not be denied._

A breathy scream tangled in her chest, muffled by her pillow, startling Bowin who lay at the foot of her bed. He huffed and nosed his way under her arm as she sat up. 

“Sorry boy.” She buried her fingers in the scruff of his neck and stared blankly at the floor for a long moment before standing. She changed swiftly, lost in thought when she moved about the mead hall. Her feet carried her outside around back out of habit.

The ringing of clashing metal created a loud rhythm as Farkas and Lydia stepped back, forth, and around each other. The bear of a man was on the defensive from the look of it, having to keep his broad blade flat out from himself to keep her axe at bay. Every so often he would jump an odd number of paces back then make a powerful lunge forward. At some unknown signal, Torvar and Athis leapt into the fray from beside him, but instead of going after one or the other, they both targeted her. Aela’s voice coming from the nearest table startled her.

“Broaden your focus,” she called. “You’re putting the blinders up again. Remember that your prey is dangerous from all sides. It’s not just a snapping head inside a harmless shell, and every inch may as well be covered in blades.”

“Yeah but,” Lydia stopped speaking with a wheeze as she lifted her axe to block Torvar’s hammer before pivoting to snap a high kick at Farkas to the solar plexus. She didn’t escape getting blindsided by Athis. “It’s of one mind, not three separate parts!”

“What’s going on here?” Ismene asked of Skjor who stood beside her. She was confused to see Lydia training here, normally she sparred alongside the town guard. Perhaps their instruction was suspended in favour of patrol.

“Farkas and the whelps are playing dragon today,” he explained. “Trying to form a strategy. We’re not about to let the guards show us up if we get targeted. There’s more experience in this building on the battlefield and with victory against one than in the entire watch combined. Matter of fact, why don’t you get in there? You’re supposed to be the best of us in this after all.”

She had to forcibly scrub away the sneer that twisted her face. 

“If that were true, Morthal would still exist.”

“And let me guess, you feel responsible,” he grunted, eye leaving the fight to give her a stern look. “Here I was thinking you had more sense than that.”

She clammed up and averted her gaze. 

“Then do something about it. I’m not saying you should live by what others perceive you to be, but if it’s bothering you that way, take action. You haven’t been in any position to start hunting the damn things—that’d be a fool’s waste of life. You’ve gained skill, I won’t deny it,” his voice dropped, “and you know where to get more power if your doubts are that strong.”

Skjor tilted his head subtly in Aela’s direction. He wandered over to a nearby weapon rack and picked up one of the blunt instruments, not a sword as she’d expected from him, but a spear. He weighed it for a second and then held it out to her.

“I’ve been considering how you fight lately, in light of… planned _training._ ” He made another minute gesture to the Huntress, as if she hadn’t noticed the first, or gotten his point. She had. “I know you think you favour swords as a secondary, but you lose a lot of confidence when an opponent gets close to you,” he observed when she accepted it. “Your strength lies in precision. She won’t admit it, but your aim might surpass Aela’s, even though she’s fighting with a heavier bow.”

“As if, old dog!”

He chuckled dryly and watched the empty bottle she pitched at him fly past into a bush. 

“Thank you for proving my point. Try that lance out, see how different the balance is. Now, let’s pit the Dragonborn against our hideous beast.” He walked with Ismene to the stairs and called for a break in the spar. “Watch where you plant your feet, and get used to your range as soon as you can.”

Nodding, she found two places on the spear that felt comfortable for the spread of her arms. She shifted her heels and tilted her hips and shoulders at complementary angles for stability.

“Pull back the hand you’ll use to guide the lance—yes, that one—and loosen your grip on the front. Now, remember how that feels.”

“You ready?” Farkas wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, pushing damp hair out of his eyes. “I’m the teeth, and our boys’re the wings, got it?”

“Get biting, sir _dovah_.”

With a sonorous growl that sounded decidedly more canine than dragon-like, he set his features in a dramatically ferocious scowl. She tried to put a giant, scaly horror in his place, but visions of his werewolf form were stronger. 

_A pretender, nothing more. Cannot encapsulate the might of the_ dov.

_Oh shut up already._

She flashed backward when he struck out, then pitched forward with her upper body, jabbing with the spear. Her attack was too fast for him to parry properly, and the tip of her weapon ricocheted off the edge of his. Though it went wide, it still struck him in the shoulder.

“Oof! You get good with that and it’ll really hurt!” He shook out his arm and got into position again. He jerked his head to Athis and he darted toward her.

“Dragons don’t compliment people,” she said as she turned her spear vertically to block Athis’s extended slice. She caught him in a glancing blow when he swiftly retreated to Farkas’s side. “Maybe I should take over for you, I’m the one who can breathe fire after all.”

“I still don’t believe that.” Torvar flashed out next. He tangled the head of his hammer with her weapon and dragged her down with its momentum. Before she could crash to the dirt, she let go, snapped up and punched him. “Hey, I’m supposed to be a wing, don’t hit me like that!”

“Wings don’t talk back,” Farkas interjected as he was once again made to defend himself. He wasn’t able to keep up with all of her pointed strikes and so took several of them in the chest. Two dented his breastplate.

Ismene was beginning to enjoy the mock battle and the success she was having with the spear. Sure, it might not have the same cutting power of a sword but Skjor was right, she didn’t need it. That said, she still had to focus on how she moved and couldn’t simply stay put and lash out. Not every hit landed—she didn’t expect perfection, but now she could make twice as many of them and evade far easier.

A short time later, Farkas called the fight off. 

“It’s gettin’ hard to focus over here on an empty belly. Give it a rest, boys.”

Twisting the spear in her grip, she complained, “already? A dragon won’t give up that easily! They don’t back down!” 

“Settle down there, sis. I know you’re havin’ fun with your new toy but I’ve been at this all day. That housecarl of yours put me through the wringer.” He winked in Lydia’s direction, put a hand on Ismene’s back and pushed her toward the hall with ease. 

“Just as well,” Lydia fell into stride beside them as they went inside, a prideful flush creeping into her face under the praise. She lowered her voice so only her Thane could hear. “I think it might be worth going you-know-where.”

All of the buoyancy cushioning her heart against what she’d felt since getting that particular news dried up, leaving the inside of her chest parched and cracked. She was still so afraid. How could she stand up to the same monster that destroyed two villages and everyone in them if her Voice wasn’t even strong enough to make a mountain path passable? 

_The old fools do not know,_ instinct cooed, its tendrils slipping about her heart like caressing hands. _They cannot see true power._

“What choice do we have,” she heard her own voice say, “maybe if I hadn’t been running away from it for so long none of this would have happened. I’ve never waited around for someone to tell me which crossroad to go down before but it looks like there’s only one left.”

The longer she spoke, the more her words felt right in spite of her fears. She was hearing dangerous thoughts for a reason, and now she was going to put them to a purpose—hers. What power she gained would be honed like a tool to be used to protect, not to be suppressed.

“Whaddya mean by that?” Farkas, having plunked in a chair beside his brother, twisted around and fixed them with a confused stare, head tilted to one side like a curious dog. 

“Don’t you know it’s rude to eavesdrop?” Lydia sniffed. “How did you hear that anyway?”

“He has big ears,” Ismene answered on his behalf, catching him start floundering for an excuse. “We’ve been given a lead to explore about the dragons. Someone told me they were being resurrected.”

Vilkas mirrored Farkas’s posture, but interest dominated his features. He fixed his gaze on her, eyes bright; some foolish idea was likely brewing behind them.

“The rumours I’ve heard about Morthal say the same. Did you know about this before now?”

She bristled, her mind inventing accusation in his tone. 

“I didn’t!—well, not until… _after_ , I think.” It was possible that the town had perished while she’d been talking to Delphine, cruel as that irony was. “They think it’s going to happen again at Kynesgrove, and soon.”

“I’m going with you.”

“You’ve lost your mind,” she gaped at him openly in disbelief. “This isn’t some bandit raid. The bastards wrecked _two villages_ , and you haven’t even _laid eyes_ on one. Do you know what you’d be getting yourself into?”

“And you think you can do it by yourself? Just you and whoever this lead is?”

“Don’t forget about me!” Lydia protested.

“Well—” Ismene hesitated. Most likely she had a snowball’s chance in Oblivion of it, but it was suddenly hard to admit. She frowned; there was no place for their inane, so called ‘rivalry’ in this. “Why?”

He held up a hand and began to tick off his fingers.

“Farkas, Aela, Njada, Ria, _you_ ,” he balled a second fist, “the damn Whiterun Guard. Those names will be sung as heroes of the Dragon Crisis and I want mine to be as well.” He folded his arms and leaned a shoulder against the back of the chair. “Besides I want to see this so called ‘revival’ with my own eyes.”

“Don’t be stupid, what if you die?”

His eyebrow rose, but there was a sharpness to his stare that told her he caught on. He silenced his twin by nudging his knee and shrugged.

“Then I go to Sovngarde with the tale that I was felled by a monster of legend. I have done enough to face Tsun with honour. Besides…” A half smirk stretched his lips but didn’t reach his eyes. “I didn’t think you _cared_.”

“Oh shut up,” she muttered, trying in vain to pretend she didn’t notice the gears turning in Farkas’s head. “Get yourself ready for the fight of your life. We have to leave as soon as possible.”

########

“You want what?” Eorlund let up on the hot iron he was pounding against his anvil to catch her eye. “The sword we gave you not good enough?”

Ismene crossed her arms. The sword was fine, but not suited to her fighting style, and she needed all the help she could get. Besides, she _liked_ her new weapon of choice and the confidence she felt simply by holding something with real potential.

It was another thing to put between herself and what was surely to come.

“Gone hard of hearing, old man?” she sniffed in accordance to his tone. “Will you _please_ make me a spear, then? You know I’m good for the coin.” 

“Companion or otherwise, I’ll not take orders from anyone, and you’d do well to remember it girl.” He returned the iron to the coals and picked up a new one. “I can see you’ve grown a backbone at last, so I’ll do you this one favour—provided you supply me with your materials.”

“What can you work?”

He scoffed. “Question is, ‘what _can’t_ I work’.”

She was suddenly reminded of a passing comment Aela made awhile back, after fighting the dragon in Falkreath. Curiosity licked at her heels.

“What could you do if I brought you dragon bones?”

He wiped his brow of steam after plunging the white-hot metal into a basin of water, mouth twitching. He considered her shrewdly.

“If it’s dense enough, quite a lot. Bone can hold an edge, but it would have to be bound to the haft with something more substantial than twine or sinew.” He seemed intrigued, and more interested in the challenge than she anticipated. He stepped away from the anvil to rummage through a heavy looking chest, and when he came back he was holding an ingot of a glossy black material. “Ever seen one of these?”

“No,” she shook her head, pressing a hand to its cool surface when he held it out. “What is it? It feels more like stone than metal.”

“It’s a bit of both. This is ebony, and it’s found in volcanic areas. This particular beauty came from the mines on Solstheim, when they were still in use. A rarity, these days. If you’re going to slay a dragon just for this weapon, I’ll gladly use my only ingot on it.”

“For little old me?”

He grunted noncommittally, but his lips quirked in the facsimile of a smile. 

“To make the Dragonborn’s weapon is a great honour. Try to use it properly, would you?”

“I’m touched, truly.”

“Get out of here and get me those bones already. I have work to do.”

#######

Double checking the knots she’d used to tie the palomino’s lead to the fence outside the Sleeping Giant Inn, Ismene ran through the things she wanted to say to Delphine. There was too much she needed explained to her, and she wasn’t exactly keen on throwing her eggs in the mystery woman’s basket just yet. In fact, the only reason she put stock into her at all was what happened to Morthal. 

But she wasn’t going to let on about her guilty feelings regarding it.

She wanted to see a dragon-slayer, so that’s what she would get. At least in attitude.

Squaring her shoulders, she scrubbed the tumultuous emotions from her face and entered the inn, astutely aware of the presence of both Lydia and Vilkas behind her. Bowin, of course, was her doubly welcome shadow.

They were immediately set upon by Delphine’s guarded stare, as if she’d been watching the door specifically for them. She jerked her head towards the deceptively empty room and beat them to it while Ognar tried to shove a broom into Sven’s unoccupied hands.

“…play anything _good_ , you might as well do something useful!” they heard him bark before the door closed.

“So, the ‘Dragonborn’ returns.” Her frown deepened when her eyes came to rest upon Vilkas. He returned it tenfold. “With yet another variable. I suppose you’re going to expound on his virtues too?”

“He’s a member of the Companions, part of the Circle,” Ismene introduced him, not really caring to go through this again. “As am I.”

“Oh _good_ ,” Delphine’s sarcasm was thick, “just what this little venture needs, one of Skyrim’s favourite thugs. So, _Companion_ , how much are you being paid for this? Enough to keep that trap of yours shut? I’m warning you here and now: if you’re not going to save this story for Sovngarde, I’ll make sure you can tell it to Ysgramor sooner than later.”

His rage was instant and palpable in the cramped room. As much as it might be satisfying to watch him transform and attack, they needed her. Kynesgrove, apparently, needed her too.

“I’ll thank you not to insult my allies,” Ismene said coldly. “As long as we’re working together, they are yours as well.”

“Oh, so you want to co-operate now, do you? Glad you’ve seen how dangerous the dragons really are. Certainly was the last thing the people of Morthal ever will.” 

All of her bite evaporated and rained back down as guilt over her heart. 

“It won’t happen again. With Kyne as my witness—”

“Slow down.” Delphine put her hands up to stop her words. She turned around and opened the nearby wardrobe and pressed hard on the back of it, revealing a false wall. “Quietly, down here. We have much to discuss, most of it sensitive.”

When the four of them gathered around the table in the middle of the hidden armoury, she continued.

“As we've all become well aware, the dragons aren’t just back—they’re being resurrected.” She began to pace. “Our goal now is to find out how, and if we can stop it.”

“All of the talk seems to think they’re reviving each other.” Ismene watched her carefully.

“But who revived the first one?” Vilkas put in.

“Well, maybe your ruffian here isn’t as dumb as he looks,” she stopped and leaned over a table whose surface was obscured by a large map of the province. There were a number of small red marks littered across it. “My best guess is that the Thalmor have had their fingers in the pot.”

“That’s what you said last time we spoke. Have you scraped up any _proof?_ ” 

“Have _you_ come up with any _other_ leads since the last time we spoke? Or were you too busy ignoring your duties—presuming you are what you say you are.”

_Hers is not the place to question us. Her words are meaningless._

_But she was right about the dragons._

_She knows nothing about the motivations of the_ dov.

Ismene shook her head to brush away her own conflicting thoughts. 

“This isn’t getting us anywhere. Let’s just move on—You said Kynesgrove was in danger, didn’t you?”

“I did.” Her steely eyes raked over the younger warriors. “I trust the ‘Dragonborn’ here has at least prepared you for what’s to come? Or did you just sign your own death papers?”

“Do not underestimate us,” Vilkas bristled. 

“It isn’t a question of ‘being underestimated,’ as you so put it,” her composure was beginning to slip and her hand twitched, presumably for a weapon. “These creatures are long heralded as harbingers of the apocalypse. Wars have been fought to quell the atrocities they have committed in history. We need to nip this in the bud as soon as possible.”

Yet here she stood, wasting time questioning their legitimacy. 

“Well then what are we waiting for?” Ismene said. Something thrummed in her veins, sending a tingle of anticipation through her body. Heat surged through her chest and the old memories of a dragon’s soul set fire to her blood.

The hunt was on.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, hope you're all keeping well during this madness. Since my workplace is considered 'essential', I have not been quarantined--my energy to write has decreased significantly, and I've been sucked into the new Animal Crossing to boot, so updates may slow down even more. It's going to get good from here on out, though, promise.
> 
> If you want to check out some bonuses, I occasionally post some random little tidbits and art related to the fic over on tumblr (mapleleafstudio)
> 
> Be careful out there, everyone.


	22. Nature of the Phantom

Even from half a league away, the cyclonic disturbance directly behind the small settlement of Kynesgrove was clearly visible, as was the dark shape hovering above it. It wasn’t difficult to ascertain what exactly was happening.

Before they could reach the Braidwood Inn, the quartet of warriors was stopped in their tracks by the arrival of a disheveled woman in the throes of hysterics.

“Get out of here!” she pleaded shrilly, seizing the front of Delphine’s armour. “Save yourselves while you still can!”

“Calm down,” she barked, gripping her shaking wrists. “What’s going on?”

“ _Dragon_ —it’s attacking!”

She looked smugly back at Ismene, “right on schedule.”

Why was that something she seemed proud to find out?

“So it would appear,” she grunted, readying her bow. 

“Then what are we waiting for?” Vilkas was already racing up the hill, sword in hand. 

As the four of them approached the source of the eerie gale, Delphine ushered them into a cluster of bushes. A local twister was stirring up the dirt of a massive grave site, filling their eyes with grit.

“Look at that ugly bastard!” she breathed in awe. “It could carry off a mammoth with ease.”

A coal black dragon easily double the size of the other two Ismene had fought hovered above the burial mound; the wind from the beating of its impossibly broad wings bent the nearby trees to absurd angles. This one wasn’t a stranger to her, however. Mouth going dry, she grasped Lydia’s forearm.

“That’s the one that destroyed Helgen,” she rasped. 

“This isn’t good,” Delphine muttered gravely. “What’s it—is it _speaking?_ ”

“ _And so the_ _so-called_ ‘Dovahkiin’ _appears at last to challenge me_ ,” the dragon boomed in Dovahzul. “ _And yet there she hides, cowering amongst the mortals. How fitting._ ”

“What did it say?” Lydia whispered, but Ismene simply shook her head mutely.

The dragon cocked its head, condescension radiating from the pits of its glowing ruby eyes. It released a dry, scraping rumble and took a lap of the clearing. As it flew, the foliage the warriors crouched in was ripped from the soil.

“ _You do not understand me, do you?_ ” It made the sound again—was it laughing at them? “How arrogant, to take the name of _dovah_ for yourself and yet you cannot even speak the language inborn to us.”

“Excuse me? You think I did this to myself? Ha!” Ismene raged, Bowin backing her up with an indignant bark. “I didn’t ask for this. Everything was fine and safe before you showed up and killed all those people. This is it, you’ve done your last rampage! Don’t be surprised when I put you back in the ground, you—you _lizard!_ ”

“Such boldness ill suits your pathetic form. I have heard your _Thu’um, Dovahkiin_ ; I readily admit I needed to strain my ears. Yours is pitiful mewling compared to my godly roar! I have yet to fall—and shall never, especially not by the likes of you.” The dragon actually wavered in the air under the strength of its mocking laughter. “ _SLEN TIID VO! Sahloknir, arise! Hear your master and devour the life of these mortals!_ ”

In response to the force of its Shout, the packed earth that filled the stone ring exploded. Freed from its shroud of soil, a dragon skeleton crawled aboveground, its bones articulated by pulsing white light. The dirt and stones beneath its feet began to bubble and writhe as though they too were suddenly alive, climbing the skeleton like dripping metal, but in reverse. In its path, the viscous substance left new flesh and shimmering scales.

“Hail Alduin, _thuri!_ ” Sahloknir crooned, “Too long my _Thu’um_ has been silenced, and I use it once more, _ol hi uth!_ ”

“Go now, while it’s still getting its bearings.” Delphine drew her tapered, slender sword and raced toward the dragons without hesitation. Vilkas leapt to his feet and followed closely behind.

Ismene’s fingers shook with anger as she nocked an arrow, navigating to a better vantage point. For the life of her she couldn’t fathom just why she was so _insulted_ by what the black dragon—called Alduin? And the other Sahloknir? They had _names?_ —had said. How dare it judge so harshly, dismiss her as nothing more than a fly. 

Satisfying as it was to watch her projectile find its home in the dragon’s brand-new hide, she didn’t want to sit back and shoot it. It didn’t feel like enough. Its blood should be staining her blade, it should succumb to her Voice. White hot fury built inside her chest, the instincts of her soul awakened again in the face of another of its kind. 

_Speak only in times of great need,_ Arngeir’s phantom advice cautioned her.

This definitely qualified, she thought.

“ _Sahloknir!_ ” she roared, bow in hand as she pelted toward the heart of the battle. She came to a stop beside Delphine as the dragon took to the sky.

“ _Dovahkiin!_ ” it returned. “Face me, as the _dov_ do! You have chosen to fight hiding behind your allies, _do nid volzahdroz_ . I will dispose of them all the same.” It rose higher and opened its mouth wide, “ _YOL TOOR SHUL!_ ”

The residual heat even metres away from the colossal stream of flame was hot enough to fry every shred of vegetation in its wake. Unlike the other dragons she’d faced, Sahloknir didn’t waste time sitting around waiting to observe the damage it had done. It landed and stomped forward on all four limbs in her direction, not pausing even to address Delphine, who was already hacking away at every part of it she could reach. It expertly avoided the arrows streaking toward its eyes—head swaying from side to side, always moving in an unpredictable pattern.

It was trying to make Ismene’s best weapon useless, to lure her out in range of its teeth.

Fear trickled from the back of her head into her guts. All three of her partners were better in battle than she and yet the dragon was effortlessly ignoring them. The hair on the back of her neck rose and she rolled behind one of the greystones when she felt it prepare to Shout again. She held her breath and clutched Bowin to her chest, squeezing her eyes shut, and waited for the blast to die down. 

So much for that brief burst of fortitude.

“Damn it girl, what are you doing?” she heard Delphine yell when the noise faded. “I thought you said you’d killed two dragons? Was that— _agh_ —nothing but a lie?”

 _I never said I did it alone_ , she thought, but voicing the correction was probably moot in light of her current actions. 

“What, like I should stand around and let myself get burnt to a crisp?” she called back. “Bowin, stay. Understand me? Do. Not. Move.” She stood a little taller and returned her bow to its bandolier. Drawing her sword, she jabbed a finger to the dirt at her feet. “Stay,” she repeated and, committing her dog’s whine to memory, plunged into the battle once more.

A smoky hiss rose in tendrils from between the dragon’s jaws. Its head sunk to stare her directly in the face, noting how the tip of her blade quivered ever so slightly.

“You fear me,” it stated, that fathomless voice full of pride. 

“No,” she lied. “But _you_ should fear _me_.” With a snarl, she hefted her sword in two hands and charged. She had to rely on her maneuverability—she was capable of taking advantage of the terrain far better than the giant lizard. So, when it snapped forward, she slid back toward the standing stones. Instead of catching her, its nose collided heavily with the curved pillar. While it blinked back the bruising blow, she flashed out and nicked its cheek, just below its eye, then took cover again.

In the meantime, Lydia and Vilkas were teaming up on Sahloknir’s back legs while Delphine was trying—and failing—to slip under its wings to cut at the softer scales at the joints. 

With a fierce war cry, the lone werewolf swung his sword down at the dragon’s calf, but came away empty handed when it stayed lodged in its flesh. Without the counterweight the weapon provided, he lost his balance and almost collided with Lydia. 

“Watch it!” she yelled, ducking under the tail as it whipped sharply in their direction. She retaliated immediately, going in with her axe to sever the tendons of the closest ankle. Learning from Vilkas’s mistake, she recovered from the move but produced a shallower cut than she intended.

“Damn it! My sword—lend me your sidearm!” he had palmed a dagger but it felt pitifully small and left him vulnerable. 

“It’s just a knife— _shit!_ ”

“ _Mal mey jorre_ , you bite like insects!” Sahloknir laughed and stood on its hind legs before swiping at them with both wings then heaving its bulk airborne. “It is fitting then, that I should crush you like them!” 

With both feet extended it swooped down toward them, but only Lydia was able to evade by throwing herself swiftly off the side of the mound. Eyes impossibly wide, Vilkas screamed when the dragon’s talons closed around his upper body and pierced through his armour. His blade fell from his slackened grip and clattered to the ground below as the dragon lifted him into the air.

The others charged side by side toward the scene just as Lydia trudged back, covered in dirt and twigs. A line of bright red blood dripped over her forehead which she wiped with a shaking hand.

“You okay?” Ismene asked, never taking her eyes off Sahloknir, who hovered above them, jaws parted in a grotesque mockery of a grin. It knew exactly what it was doing by holding him hostage.

“I’m fine. What are we going to do about _that?_ ” 

“Shoot until the beast lands,” Delphine had her bow out and ready to release an arrow.

“No the fuck we will _not!_ ” She would cut her bowstring before she allowed that. “If you miss you might hit him!”

“He’s as good as dead up there! We need to kill it before it decides to blaze the inn; would you risk those lives for one? Don’t be a fool!”

“I will _not_ let another one of my comrades die!” The words came out as a veritable snarl, and it pleased her to see uncertainty flash across her face before it returned to that stiff mask. She leveled a vicious glare at the dragon. “Who’s hiding behind my allies now? Does a mighty _dov_ really need a mortal meat shield? Put him down and fight!”

All of Sahloknir’s teeth were on display and its eyes shone. 

“As you command, _Dovahkiin_ ,” it rumbled, and promptly released its captive.

“ _That’s_ your superior plan—”

“—Ismene wait—!”

She didn’t hear what else they said. As soon as Vilkas began to fall, she burst into a full out run. No matter how fast her feet pounded the ground, the distance never seemed to close. It was like one of those horrible dreams, only this time there was no waking up before someone died. 

She wasn’t going to make it! 

_Let your Voice carry you._

_Yes I am._

“ _WULD!_ ”

At the tail end of the Shout’s distance, the whole weight of man and mail came down upon her. Unable to stay upright, her ankle rolled beneath her and they crashed hard into the stony ground. There was a sharp crack at her hip and the sudden spreading of warm wetness from the point of impact; the blossoming of intense pain registered distantly as bones piercing skin. At the moment, she didn’t care.

“Are—you… okay?” she wheezed, trying to disentangle herself without putting any more pressure on her leg.

Vilkas groaned loudly from where he lay. The top of his breastplate was punctured in several places underneath his pauldrons, and blood streamed through the largest holes. 

“Damn it!” Grimacing, she rolled until she could access her pack, but wrenched her hand back when she was cut by something sharp; she found her palm covered in sticky red fluid and tiny shards of glass. She’d broken his fall, and her potions had broken hers. “Son of a bitch!”

“Ismene!” Lydia finally caught up to them. 

“Lydia,” she hissed as she helped her to stand. She clung tightly to her when her leg threatened to give out. “Take— _ahh shit_ —take him down to the inn and get some first aid before he bleeds out.”

“Are you crazy! What about your leg? You can’t go on fighting like that!”

“I have no choice! Delphine can’t do it alone! I don’t care if we don’t see eye to eye, nobody’s dying on my watch.” She rested against a nearby fallen tree and licked the hand covered in potion residue. It wouldn’t heal her, but she could feel some of the pain ebb away—enough to let her walk again. _Waste not want not_.

“I’ll never forgive you if you die.” She grunted as she shouldered the wounded Companion’s weight, mindful of his injuries and did her best not to touch them, lest she inadvertently add to their yet unknown severity. Worry flashed across her face and remained. “Please try not to kick Tsun unfairly, no matter how much you want to come back.”

“I’ll be alright,” she assured, squeezing her shoulder. She wouldn’t let Kjell’s sacrifice be in vain. 

An earth shaking boom nearly toppled her over once Lydia limped with Vilkas out of sight. 

Sahloknir had landed again.

“Flee!” it cackled, “run before true might, while you still can.” It sucked in air to breathe fire in the direction the pair had gone, knowing they would be unable to escape it.

Ismene’s hands closed around the largest rock she could lift and she pitched it at the dragon, striking it in the side of the head.

It yelped, not having expected the hit, and bore down upon her, rage in its evil eyes. 

Delphine took her cue and grabbed fistfuls of her cloak, dragging her out of the way just in time for its jaws to close on nothing.

“Idiot girl!” she scolded, shielding her. She stabbed forward with a mighty lunge when Sahloknir came after them, plunging her sword deep into its nostril. The blade came back bloody and the dragon retreated again, momentarily. “What in Oblivion were you thinking? You could have wound up crushed.”

“Don’t care,” she gasped. Jarring pain shot up into her hip and she fell. “Their lives come first.”

“Fantastic, our alleged Dragonborn has a hero complex.”

“I’ve lost enough.” She removed her glare from Delphine to look around the shelter of the greystones to observe the dragon watching them. 

“Well now it’s just the two of us,” she paused, giving her a clinical once-over, “well, one and a half. What’s your plan?”

“The eyes,” Ismene used the wide cracks in the nearest stone to haul herself upright. “That’s its weakest spot.” _I think. It’s the only area not covered in scales_. “So we have to get it grounded as long as possible.”

“And how do you suppose we do that?” she asked incredulously. 

Frowning deeply, she squinted, eyes darting around their surroundings. How indeed? What did they have at their disposal? The cluster of curved pillars around them stood close enough together that it would be difficult to fit much more than a horse drawn cart through. 

Or a dragon’s head.

With the right move, she could imagine Sahloknir’s neck tied between them, like a fly in a spider web.

“Do you have rope in your saddlebag?”

“You really are mad! You’re not wrangling a bull, for Shor’s sake!”

“Look at the alignment of those stones. We can make a trap. It might not hold for long, but it might be enough to distract it so we can get a blade into its brain,” Ismene explained. “I’m already weakened, I’ll make decent bait. Don’t forget I can Shout my way out of trouble if I need to.”

“I don’t like this.”

“You don’t have to.”

“It’s not going to work!”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware you were _clairvoyant_. Are you going to help me or not?”

“Fine,” Delphine conceded. “Don’t get eaten, I’ll be back as soon as I can. Ropes. I can’t believe this.”

Slowly she edged around the stone to come face to face with Sahloknir. The rumbling of air in its chest as it breathed palpitated the cores of her bones and she had to force herself to change her own breathing back into the pace her body needed. Keeping eye contact, she continued to sidle among the ruins until she was at the place she needed the dragon to be. Hopefully it wouldn’t catch on before they could take advantage of their plan.

“You’re going to die here,” she taunted, stalling for time. “And I’m going to take your soul.”

“Ha!” it stood on its back legs again. “If only you could look upon your feeble form. You are powerless. A mockery of the _dovah_.” Faster than she thought it capable of moving, it slammed its whole weight down and slapped the ground with its tail, creating a tremor that toppled her over, bad leg giving way out from underneath her.

“Your efforts are in vain, and your _Thu’um_ is weak!” Sahloknir crawled toward her at an insultingly slow pace as she struggled to even sit up. It stopped short of her and pressed the outer edge of a claw against her neck. “There will be nothing left of you but a fleeting memory, _orin tol fen feim_ , lost forever as on the breeze.” It bent its neck and took the bulk of her cloak between its teeth like a mother cat would her young and whipped her high into the air.

The wind rushed in her ears but the only thing she could hear was the Word it had spoken, and with it came a desolate sensation. The crush of emotions that made someone want to hide away from the world. A blur at the edge of existence, like the moment before unconsciousness. She was weightless, suspended for nothing by nothing.

And she understood.

Grasping at the moment of deadening serenity, she twisted her body in midair to find that Sahloknir’s open jaws waited below. The Shout leaked from the blank space inside of her and seeped out of her skin like sweat.

“ _FEIM!_ ”

Instead of landing in the depths of the dragon’s gullet, she fell straight through the beast entirely and contacted the ground like a loose feather coming free of a bird in flight. She felt nothing, no pain, not even the new bruising around her throat.

She ran.

The cluster of stones came upon her fast, and she sprinted between them just as Delphine was returning—not with a coil of rope, but a length of thick iron chain. Her eyes bulged as the spectral Dragonborn, followed closely by her enemy, rushed past her.

“Now, do it now!” she yelled, hollow voice echoing over the dragon’s vicious growling.

As expected Sahloknir, blinded by rage, lunged its head forward into the space Ismene had run through. The speed and force with which it moved allowed its slender jaw to slide between the pillars, but not to withdraw. It roared furiously, trying to pull itself free by jerking its neck back the way it came. The earth at the base of the columns shifted as it thrashed from side to side; it would rip them out of the ground before long. They had to act fast.

Delphine flashed forward, throwing a loop of chain at the dragon. It fell over its head, ensnaring its crown of horns. Taking the remainder of the chain in both hands, she wrapped it around the nearest pillar and pulled it tight, immobilizing it further.

“Go!” she commanded, face beet red with the effort of restraining the struggling dragon. Within seconds the links began to slip from her hands.

Using the last of the ethereal Shout’s magic, Ismene yanked the longsword out of the dragon’s leg and bolted back to its head. She had one shot and she would make it count. She climbed one of the pillars and braced herself to jump.

The chain Delphine had lassoed Sahloknir’s horn with held to the greystone just long enough for Ismene to leap off the one next to it and grab the other. Using all the strength she had left, she swung her body as though mounting a horse and settled on top of its head. She hefted Vilkas’s forgotten sword in her hands and sunk it all the way into its eye socket.

Sahloknir’s roar was so loud and shrill that she was sure it caused an avalanche somewhere in Winterhold. It shuddered violently and tossed its head back, snapping the chains and sending her flying. Its neck folded into its chest and it gouged at its face with the long talons on the thumbs of its wings, trying to rid itself of the steel thorn. Deep crimson tracks followed its efforts and scales peeled away, exposing raw flesh.

Delphine wasted no time. She sprinted at the wounded dragon, thin sword in hand. With a well-timed roll, she slid beneath its bowed head and stabbed upward into the soft area at the base of its jaw, her blade unseen as it severed the cords connecting its spine to the skull.

There wasn’t enough life left in the dragon for it to register its own death, and its corpse wilted to the ground.

Only the absorption of Sahloknir’s soul let Ismene crawl to an upright position. The skin on the right side of her face was scraped deeply, filled with dirt and stones and if her leg hadn’t been broken before she was sure it was now. 

########

Throughout Sahloknir’s exaggerated death-throes, Alduin did not move an inch to save it. Instead, he sat on the highest part of the hill and never once took his eyes off the Dragonborn. He had been watching and listening for word of her with interest since Mirmulnir’s demise. A few of his lesser servants had been felled, their bones left to bleach under the sun, but each time she came away injured and had to rely on her fellow pathetic mortals to make a scratch on even the weakest of the _dov_.

He could feel how her _dovahsil_ greedily consumed Sahloknir’s—only able to because he permitted it—and grew drunk on the essence. Yet, even though what she really was shone brilliantly in that moment, it was snuffed out too soon—by her doing, it seemed. Amusement trundled in his chest. So she rejected her nature that strongly? It was the work of his traitor brother, he assumed.

All the better.

When his hour of triumph drew nigh, there would be no worthy force to oppose him. 

It was pathetic how soft the mortals had become in his absence. Gone was the might of old. The strength of the Tongues and the rebels who had toppled his reign had faded into nothingness. And what had replaced it? Weakness. Disgust gurgled in his belly as he witnessed the _Dovahkiin's_ need to take support from the mortal who wielded the dragon-slayer sword. It was a cruel prank by his father, to bestow the gifts of the _dovah_ upon this worm. 

A true _dov_ needed not rely on anyone. They had subordinates, not allies.

Unable to stomach their presence further, Alduin took to the sky in the direction of Skuldafn. The end of this world was long overdue.

  
  
  



	23. The Nature of Purpose

Staggering into the Braidwood inn while supported by Delphine, Ismene skimmed her eyes over the packed room. It appeared as though every person in the vicinity had wedged themselves inside to take refuge from Sahloknir’s revival. Amongst the fear stricken faces, though, she could not see Lydia nor Vilkas.

“Is it gone?” one man, middle aged with a child clutching his leg, asked shakenly. 

“The dragon is dead,” Delphine announced imperiously, allowing her charge to stand on her own. “And you have the Dragonborn here to thank for it.”

At once, the uneasy silence lifted, shattered by a round of applause and tearful, relieved laughter. Not feeling the celebration, Ismene fixed her with a cold glare.

“Don’t tell anyone else,” she seethed, “you’re not the only one who wants to stay hidden. Help me to the back.”

“It wouldn’t matter if I said nothing at all,” she returned, “you think this wouldn’t get out?”

“Weren’t you the one worried that I was a Thalmor plant? You’re not the only one with their ear to the ground.” She’d told Ralof, quite insistently, to assure his Jarl that her strength wasn’t anything useful—and she was convinced it wasn’t—but now that a dragon was slain so near to Windhelm… 

As they neared the back of the room, above the din of happy voices, a door slammed hard enough to rattle its hinges. The culprit, Lydia, for all her cuts and bruises, stormed toward them.

“Just so you both know,” she huffed, “he’s going to bleed dry and I refuse to be held responsible.”

“Who, that stubborn oaf of a Companion?” Delphine asked, letting the housecarl accept her limping Thane. 

“The dragon’s claws dug deep, and he needs stitches, but he refused my help—quite rudely, I might add. He wouldn’t even let me near, snarling and spitting like a mad bull.”

“That idiot. Here, let me try talking to him,” Ismene offered, trying to tug her toward the room. 

“Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Having stumbled past the door Lydia opened, she leaned heavily on the frame, and on every object she could as she approached Vilkas, who sat hunched over on the bed. He was bare from the waist up, breastplate and pauldrons laying uselessly on the floor. His trembling hands were stuffed with thick wads of bloody fabric, and his features were contorted in pain, an expression he tried valiantly to hide when she drew near.

“I told the housecarl—”

“Her _name_ is Lydia.”

“—I don’t need help. And I’m not going to repeat myself again,” he growled. He seemed to draw into himself as her eyes swept over his torso, lingering on the punctures in his shoulders where Sahloknir had grabbed him. Scarlet smudges blended in with the hair on his chest, flowing from glistening wounds.

“I beg to differ.” She stooped and unclipped a pouch from her waist, wincing at the brief pressure on her leg. “Turn around and let me see your back.”

“I’m _fine_. It’s just a scratch.”

“I’m not carrying your body back to Whiterun.”

“The bleeding will stop.”

She looked up from the needle she’d already threaded. 

“Have fun with Hircine.”

His posture went rigid, and he bared his teeth. He tried to push her away when she approached with the first aid implements, but his fatigue made the motion feeble. 

“Then you know why I cannot allow—”

“—For Kyne’s sake, you fool!” she hissed angrily, pushing his shoulder so that he faced away from her. “You have to _ingest_ a werewolf’s blood to become one, do you not? It isn’t like I plan on licking you.”

Vilkas snapped his head around, pinning her with those distinct, pale eyes of his. There was wildness to him in that instant and she could not look away.

“They offered,” he whispered, though he may as well have Shouted. “They offered you the beast blood, didn’t they?”

“That’s none of your business. Now sit still—” 

“Tell me! Tell me you aren’t seriously considering accepting!”

Ignoring him, Ismene tied off the end of her thread. Recalling the steps Leaves-no-Trail had insistently hammered into her head, she wet a fresh cloth with the warm water from the bucket on the nightstand. She bit the inside of her cheek against the stinging of the cuts on her palm when they came in contact with the water. Gently, she daubed at the deep gouge on his back, carrying on despite the heavy flinch he gave. 

This was why she had argued so strongly when he’d insisted on joining. What glory was worth hurting this way? If the fight had gone worse, and he ended up maimed or even dead—what would the others think of her then? She could almost hear the scathing voices of Skjor and Aela, and the grief of Farkas. 

_You promised to protect him._

_His blood is on your hands, useless, craven whelp!_

She murmured an apology, noticing belatedly that her ministrations had become far less delicate.

“Get on with it, then,” he consented, blinking wearily, and tilting his head downward. 

“Bite something if you must.” She set the needle point against his skin to show him where the stitches would start. “Tell me if the pain is too much,” she added firmly when she caught the corner of his eye. Her lips tightened into the ghost of a frown, concentration and memories hardening her gaze. As she worked, she could hear Leaves’ voice in her mind. 

_“Keep your patient distracted and your sutures clean. Conversation is key, or try some of those half-baked jokes you and Kjell seem to like.”_

She hadn’t had much opportunity—or the desire—to speak with the acerbic man, and so it was difficult for her to find a worthy topic; she knew next to nothing about him. So, she would talk about something weighing on her own mind.

“What is it like being a werewolf?” she asked quietly, pausing to work out a snag in the thread. “I was told it’s the ‘perfect fusion of the cunning of man and the raw instinct of a beast,’ and from what I saw…” she let herself trail off, not needing to recount that she’d seen three members of the Circle transform. “It’s definitely formidable.”

Vilkas scoffed derisively. 

“Those are Aela’s words alright. She revels in it, her and Skjor, and that’s their prerogative.” So had he, once. The harsh disdain in his tone betrayed his true, if changed opinions on the matter. The glower was back on his face, eyes narrowed to thin white slits amongst the darkness of his war paint. 

“It’s a _curse_ ,” he spat out the leather strip he’d been chewing. “One that plagues the mind with the intentions of an animal in every waking moment. No way for a warrior to be. To take the blood is to join Hircine in Oblivion; there is no seat in Shor’s Hall for a werewolf.”

This was not news to her, but it must have been why Kodlak sought a cure. He knew his life was nearing its end and so wished for Sovngarde. It was a sobering, terrible thing to realize, let alone to spend the remainder of one’s days under such stress.

“And you think an afterlife in the Hunting Grounds is unappealing,” she said neutrally. “What if I told you that my soul might not even be mine to bargain with? I don’t know… what’s going to happen to me after I die, but for right now I don’t care. I have too much to do in life for it to matter.”

“How can you say that?” he cried in disbelief. He sucked in a pain-filled breath before he continued, “would you turn away from your ancestors? A beast’s is not a life you want.” 

Was he pleading with her now? He was looking at her oddly, distress evident in his countenance. The idea of _this_ man worrying himself over her fate churned her gut in a way that was uncomfortable and pleasing at the same time. She was so used to disregarding him that it was a little awkward to hear, but that didn’t stop his tone of concern from re-igniting her own inner conflicts.

“My purpose is to rid Skyrim of dragons once and for all,” so Delphine seemed to think, “and I have to survive doing so. There have been too many close calls already and if taking on that form and the prowess that comes with it will benefit me…” she shrugged. “Unless you can tell me what becomes of dragon souls when they’re not consumed? If I can’t handle it in the end—Kodlak is looking for a cure, and when he finds it, that’ll take care of that.”

“If,” he interjected, “We don’t know how close he is.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Is your faith in the Harbinger waning, Vilkas?”

His features twisted into a dark snarl. 

“ _Never!_ ” he snapped. “I don’t appreciate the implication, nor did I ever figure you were this foolish. You mean to play with forces you do not understand!”

“Relax,” she murmured, face softening, “I didn’t mean anything by it. Rest assured, I’m prepared to deal with my choice.”

“I’m warning you here and now. If you come to rely too heavily on the blood, it… changes you. Each time you assume that form, you let the beast take reign of your body. Each transformation becomes more difficult to reverse and not because the spell is stronger.” His voice grew rough and he seemed far more haggard, like an addict going through withdrawal. “You become increasingly _feral_.”

“Aela said— _ouch!_ ”

A sudden jerk of his arm caused her blood slicked fingers to slip off her work, driving the needle into the heel of her opposite hand. She cursed loudly, ignoring his wince from her proximity to his ear. Her own blood welled up into her palm again, and she hastily wiped it away on her sleeve. If he was going to keep that up, he would wind up with a messy, crooked scar. And a sharp slap upside the head. 

“What did you do?” he demanded, allowing her to reposition him so she could tie off the thread.

“Nothing. Be quiet and this will go quicker. While I’m getting more thread, you take the potion Delphine gave me and drink it.”

He made a sour face, “they’re disgusting. And what about you? I saw you limping.”

“Does it look like I care? The last thing any of us needs is for you to get infected and whine the whole way home. And for that matter—don’t pretend like you worry for me.”

“Your bedside manner leaves much to be desired, stray,” Vilkas sighed, huffing when she rolled her eyes. “The beast makes me immune to diseases—don’t look so interested!”

“Shut up, mutt. Now, get that leather back in your teeth and sit still. Good boy.”

#######

“Well?” Lydia was the first to address Ismene as she hobbled toward them out of Vilkas’s room. “Did you save the patient?”

“He’ll live,” she half collapsed onto the nearest bench to them. “He’s a man so he’ll complain about the smallest ache ‘til the next era comes around, but no deaths today.”

“How’s your leg?” 

Wincing, she pried off her boot to reveal a heavily swollen ankle. The skin around it was hot and distended and began to throb with her pulse the second it was free.

“Broken by the look of it. My potions all smashed in the battle, so I’ll have to splint it,” she looked at Delphine, “unless Restoration magic is in your bag of mystery?”

She snorted indelicately. “Unfortunately not. Combat isn’t even my specialty. I prefer to operate behind the scenes. There’s a resident mage here, though, I’ll fetch her. Surely she’ll be willing to help the Dragonborn. When I get back and you can stand, we’ll need to talk in private. I owe you some answers.”

Humming, Ismene did not disagree. She fell into silence, letting the last of her energy slip away. Her eyes unfocused and glazed over as she stared off into nothingness, vision wavering ever so slightly. Her thoughts descended into blankness and a headache developed in the back of her head, driving away any feeling but the pain from her wounds, and a strange, intense itching in her hands.

Delphine returned a short time later, a Dunmer woman in blue mage’s robes in tow. 

“So I hear thanks are in order,” she said by way of greeting. “Kynesgrove is in your debt, traveller.”

“It’s my duty,” she paused to adjust her leg, “apparently.”

“Duty or not, we are alive another day because of your actions.” She knelt beside her and gingerly poked her ankle. “I regret to tell you that my chosen school is Conjuration, though I do know basic healing spells. I can’t fully heal you, but it will be enough for you to walk again.” At once, a gentle golden glow emerged from her palms and warmly passed over her injury.

Again she dearly missed Leaves, and could picture the concern in his eyes even though he would surely scold her.

 _I’ll be more careful next time_ , she promised his ghost. 

“If you’re still not feeling well, find the Eldergleam Sanctuary, there are usually healers there who come seeking Kynareth’s blessing.” She stood and nodded slowly. “Again, thank you.”

“I’m grateful for your help,” Ismene smiled. “I won’t forget this.”

“Are you ready?” Delphine was quick to start her conversation.

Couldn’t she rest for ten minutes? She bit back a sigh of exasperation and nodded. Her brain pounded again under the movement.

“Good. Come with me and leave her behind this time.” She jerked her head at Lydia, who bristled indignantly.

“Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of her. She’s my most trusted confidant and is now just as involved in this as you or I.” She paused, “and my other partner too, I suppose.”

“By the gods, you’re too difficult for your own good,” she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Alright. Let’s move.”

Ismene and Lydia followed Delphine away from the building revelry and into her small room. The secretive woman pushed a small chest of drawers in front of the door.

“Before I say anything I want to let you know that by associating with me you’re making powerful enemies,” she began, leaning against the nearest empty wall. “Namely the Thalmor.”

Well that would certainly explain her obsession with them, but what had she done to set herself in their sights?

“What did you do?”

“I am one of, if not _the_ last member of the Blades. It’s my sworn oath to serve the Dragonborn.”

“As in the people who were supposed to guard the Emperor?” Lydia questioned, exchanging a confused look with her Thane. “Isn’t the Dominion—and the Thalmor—technically an ally of the Mede Empire?”

“I wouldn’t use the word _‘ally,’_ ” her reply was full of derision. “I’d say _‘puppet masters’_ is more appropriate. They have a tighter choke hold on the powers that govern than any of you realize.”

“Is that why Ulfric Stormcloak started a rebellion?” Ismene wondered. She’d heard bits and pieces from a number of gossips about his wanting to free Skyrim from the ban on Talos, but was there more to it than that?

“If it is, he certainly chose a stupid way to do it. The High King was loyal to the Empire and, as much damage as the Inquisition has been doing, the Legion is the only thing keeping this from becoming another Valenwood,” Delphine explained gravely. “But that’s not why we’re here. Although…” She narrowed her eyes and rubbed her chin. “Burning our cities down one by one via a dangerous scapegoat _would_ provide a major distraction.”

It still didn't add up in her mind. Why would they go to so much trouble to summon a dragon, only to let it run amok unsupervised? And if they _hadn't_ , well, then the last Blade certainly was in trouble. Deep in her heart she knew something wasn't right. Somehow she couldn't imagine a _dov_ with such a powerful Voice would never let itself be forced under a yoke like that, destroying for a purpose other than its own.

It just didn't seem possible.

A detail from the battle flashed into focus, having been buried by pain and fear. Something about what Sahloknir had called the other dragon sparked familiarity--where had she heard the name 'Alduin' before? Someone had once said... Her eyes widened and her stomach dropped as an argument between her mother and grandfather filtered in from the mires of repressed memories.

" _Ismene is a Nord, Anita and so are you. Teach her the gods by their proper names. Or have you given up on who we are?"_

_"Only by half, and I have chosen the side without a bleak future. Might I remind you that she is my child, not yours Ingemar. I shall raise her how I see fit. She will be a civilized, modern lady that has nothing to do with antiquated names and traditions. She will learn to revere Akatosh, not Alduin. Kynareth, not Kyne. I will not tell you again!"_

"The black dragon!" she suddenly blurted, interrupting her tirade and earning a hard stare. "Its name is _Alduin!_ Doesn't that mean anything to you?

Only Lydia looked rightfully concerned, jaw dropping open slightly.

"No," Delphine answered bluntly. "Where exactly did you come up with that little tidbit? I thought you couldn't speak the dragon language."

"I _can't_ , but some things any ear will pick up if they're familiar, like hearing a swear in Dunmeris. Everyone knows what _n'wah_ means," she retorted. "The revived dragon definitely said it and I doubt it was invoking an old Nord god for thanks."

"One that's described as a dragon in all the stories," Lydia put in, looking disturbed. "Alduin the World-Eater…"

Delphine actually laughed.

"And you say _my_ theory makes no sense!" She pinched her brow and didn't bother to hold back another dry chuckle. "From what I saw out there today, you'd be better off tackling a few Dominion mooks than chasing defunct deities. Besides--why would they bring one that's half forgotten back from near extinction when they're oppressing another that's very, _very_ relevant?"

“Are you really still blaming them? After what she just said?” 

She felt vindicated, hearing Lydia stick up for her, but deep down she didn't want to be right. The implications were horrifying.

“Makes more sense than what she came up with. There’s no telling how deep their machinations go—I know they’ve got their dainty fingers into everything, it's inevitable." She sighed. “But you’re right one one thing: we need proof.”

“What are you proposing?” Ismene doubted it could get any worse than challenging a dragon based on a map. One that may or may not be the harbinger of the apocalypse.

“ _Ambassador_ Elenwen frequently hosts little soirees for the who’s who of Skyrim at the Embassy in Haafingar. You know, the notable Imperial-slash-Dominion boot-lickers. With a little luck, I can get you in there, but it might take awhile.” 

Ismene blanched. _Divines preserve me! Is she serious? Could this get_ any _worse?_

“I—” she swallowed, “there’s no other way?”

Delphine grinned. 

“What size of dress do you wear?”

######

The day wore on into evening, and once the sun set, the occupants of the inn grew ever more rowdy. Bold with drink, several of the men who had once cowered under its roof now sung and boasted of their survival. Even the innkeeper, smiling widely as he counted their coin, testified to the dragons as being Kynesgrove’s best fortune in years even though, Ismene remembered, he’d been far less optimistic a season ago.

As for those now hailed as heroes, they were content in their corner as they nursed their own alcohol and injuries. Delphine had left some time prior, the paranoid woman assuring she would be in touch and to expect letters from _‘auntie Dee’._ Bowin happily howled along with the bard’s flute, belly full of handouts. 

“Quite a bunch, aren’t they?” Lydia observed, cheeks rosy from yet another mead bought for her by an admirer. She hid an uncertain look from the man who waved to her across the fire pit.

“Let them celebrate,” Ismene put in, scratching at her palm for the umpteenth time. She wasn’t feeling the party. In fact, her head swam, her tongue was dry, and she couldn’t stop the occasional but powerful shiver. “This could have ended up like Helgen or Morthal, and they know it.”

“You’re in for some luck, too though,” she pointed at her hands. “Is that the hand that means ‘due for money’? Or is it ‘due for love’?”

“I think it’s ‘due for rest’. I’m freezing and exhausted,” she said dully. The longer she sat, the worse her head throbbed, and her leg still bothered her. “Can someone take Bowin out? I’m going to bed. Lydia?”

“Mhm?” By that time she had stopped trying to be coy and was starting to look uncomfortable.

“Please be careful.”

She watched her dog follow Vilkas out of the inn before she turned away. Apparently slaying a dragon and ‘driving off’ a second hadn’t been enough for the proprietor to waive the ten gold fee. At that point she was too tired and achy to bother grumbling about greedy innkeepers, but decided as she drifted off that it was worth it.

The discomfort fretting her battered body stirred the waters of her mind as she slept and forced the murk of nightmares to the surface.

_She’s been running now, for gods know how long, but she can’t stop. If she stops, they’ll get her. She’s being hunted, and she can feel their breath against her back, hear the wetness in their lungs, and any second their fangs will be in her neck._

_So she runs._

_She can’t see where she’s going, but her ears are dizzyingly full and scents around her are sharp. A voice calls to her, pulling her forward by her heart as though a hook is caught in her ribs. She cannot make out the words but she knows it is instructing her._

_Run._

_Her limbs are heavy and it takes everything she has to continue. Her bones scream and her skin is stretched like old leather; she knows she is being ripped apart. Something is forcing its way out of her, tearing with claws she cannot find. They are hers. She is being chased by nothing, and is threatened by her own hands. The wraiths are inside her._

_She stops._

_She is no longer recognizable to herself. Her eyes are filled with bestial fury and what she truly is writhes brightly against what she has become. The essence will not mix, but for now exists in compliment. It needs her to destroy everything in her path and she desires it as well._

_Her jaws stretch wide and a howl erupts from her throat._

_The wraiths succumb to her teeth._

_The voice becomes clear._

“At last it is time. Awaken, Moon-Child.”

  
  
  
  
  



	24. Nature of the Beast

“Wake up! For the love of Shor, snap out of it!”

The feeling of hands clamped around her arms broke Ismene out of her dream, but didn’t silence the jagged scream that ripped from her throat. Her eyes snapped open wide, tears rolling down her puffy cheeks. She was in pain, so much pain!

“Help me!” she choked, pleading with whoever was holding onto her. She tried to reach out but her arm wouldn’t obey. Her vision was too blurry to distinguish their face, though she could make out a mop of dark hair.

“Can you move?” A man, the voice was familiar. “No—look at me! Don’t close your eyes! Yes, that’s it. Breathe.”

“I— _can’t!_ ” Her own voice was garbled and thick, inhuman sounding. It was growing increasingly difficult to speak and there was something in her mouth obstructing the words, something she was unable to spit out. She couldn’t close her lips around her own teeth. All of her joints were on fire and it spread through her body, liquefying her organs and turning her marrow into molten iron.

“Give me your hand—don’t hit me! What— _Fuck_ , this is—I have to get you out of here, _now_.”

Whoever this was—her addled brain couldn’t distinguish his face—bundled her up in the furs twisted around her agonized limbs. She was lifted like that, cradled against a broad chest like a child and carried… somewhere. A woman’s voice rang out, worried, so worried, where was he taking her? What was going on?

“Go—Windhelm—Phial. Hurry—danger!” 

Ismene blacked out.

Feeling horrible for the utter panic his warning had instilled on her face, Vilkas waited anxiously to leave until Lydia had dashed out into the night. He readjusted his hold on the prone woman in his arms and followed suit, but in the opposite direction. This was exactly what he had wanted to avoid in refusing his own treatment.

Still, it was the lesser of two evils, he supposed. Better someone who knew than one who didn’t.

_Damn fool!_

As his feet thumped along the hard, frost-slicked trail leading ever deeper into Kyne’s blessed forest, he could sense the metamorphosis his passenger was going through. Because her limbs were lengthening and her mass steadily increased, the way he held her began to strain his new stitches. The warmth of the blood rolling down his back was jarring against the chill of the air, but he kept going.

White hot anger blossomed inside him, sourced more from guilt than temper. What was he going to say to Kodlak? That it had been _him_ and not Aela who turned her? He hadn’t meant to, it wasn’t his fault!

The rhythm of her heart was changing, calling, _calling_ to what lurked in his own. A cloying scent he was too familiar with smothered the latent tang of dragon fire and inflamed his senses. Every inch of his body burned with his beast’s need to be free.

His chest heaved like a winded horse, and the shaking of his over tense muscles made his stride lurch too far for his pace and he stumbled. Unable to catch his balance, Vilkas fell, his descent broken on the packed tundra by unprotected knees. He yelped, more out of shock than pain, as the rest of him struck the ground, arms tangled in the pelts surrounding his cargo.

He quickly extricated himself, but froze completely upon hearing the bestial groan that rippled out of Ismene, who lay motionless. The sound echoed in his veins and stabbed his eardrums like knives fresh out the forge, forcing him to dig his clawed fingers into the dirt to subjugate the responsive howl that throbbed in his throat. 

When Skjor had given them their wolves years ago, he hadn’t been allowed to watch Farkas transform for the first time and now he was glad of it. It was grotesque, the way her skin purpled while she bled under the surface, flesh convulsing beneath to grow over expanding bones. The blonde hair on her head appeared shrivel into her scalp, only to sprout again, thicker and darker, inching like moss beneath shredded clothing.

The worst of it all, however, was her expression, her eyes. Never before had he seen such terror and agony on a person’s face, and the way she reached for him put shards of ice in his belly. The sickening sound of wet, laboured breath lurching from her expanding muzzle was broken by her attempt to speak.

“Hee—ll— _hh_ —he—l—p— _mmm_ —” 

Her words were overtaken by a noise fit for some hell-beast, not quite a snarl as it was a retch. With one final rasping cry, what was left of the fabric covering her was torn away and she rose sluggishly out of it onto all fours. 

A new wolf was born. 

She writhed, tossing her head and spitting out a whine while trying to find the dexterity to remove the silver chain that cut into her neck. Eventually she succeeded, and barked defiantly at the object where it glittered on the ground. She stilled when she caught sight of him, a silent growl crinkling her snout. The brown and sand coloured fur encasing her body stood on end and her eyes were savage—was she going to attack him?

The sight and scent of the transformation shredded through what remained of Vilkas’s self-control. The roar he could no longer hold back clamored through the trees, but he was thrilled rather than horrified. He was gripped by the ecstasy of the release of his own change, a feeling more intoxicating than the strongest Argonian Bloodwine could ever be, more potent than the result of any passion.

Brilliant white fangs gleamed amongst pitch-black fur, dulled only by the shine in his silvery eyes. At last he was free. To run, to hunt, to feast.

_The endless howling changed._

_The dragon’s haunting echo matched its tempo._

_Her own screaming ceased._

_They are the voices inside her and they begin to sing, in harmony._

It had come all at once, but when it was over, it was as though the fever and suffering had never been. Her body was imbalanced and awkward, the shape of her hands and feet entirely alien, devoid of coordination. The way her ears flicked to every detectable sound—why, oh why were there so _many_ —created a high pitched ringing that set a haze in her vision. The multitude of scents both pleasing and revolting that assaulted her nose threatened to send a spray of bile through her elongated teeth—no, her _fangs_. Strongest out of all of them was the massive, humanoid wolf staring her down, smelling both of home and danger. 

She attempted to speak through the bloodthirsty fog clouding her thoughts, but the mouth she now had would not foster the words. Instead, a garbled bark squeezed out of her lungs. 

The black werewolf tilted his head but did not approach her. The fur on his back and shoulders lay flat, his ears pricked high. He was not a stranger and was not threatening her, but his posture was sure, confident. It didn't sit well.

 _We are_ dovah _, we hold dominance._

_Bond. Pack. Blood._

She barked again, irritated by the inherent cockiness he exuded. She would not tuck tail, she should stand taller! Slowly she lifted her arms off the ground, trying to balance on the odd angle of her legs. Muscle memory failed her, and she toppled ungracefully back down.

“ _Ahrrahrrr_ ,” she tried. Her jaws clicked together over the sounds, tongue not working the way she wanted. She sat, ears folded back against her head, dark lips peeling away from her wicked teeth.

“This is your own fault,” he huffed angrily, startling her with his gravelly volume. “I warned you, and what did you do? You pricked yourself with the needle, didn’t you?”

“ _Rrrahar! Arararuuu!_ ” 

The more frustrated she became, the less motivation she had to be civil, or coherent for that matter. Tension inflamed her musculature with the desire to fight, to kill. Hunger squeezed her insides as though she’d been starving for weeks but felt no more weak for it. Why was she wasting her time here, when there were lesser creatures to be hunted? This one was a nuisance, she decided, and needed to leave her be. 

Without a second thought, she clumsily dashed toward him, ambling more like a newborn foal than a violent monster. As ungainly though she moved, her determination alone was enough to carry her charge through. 

Matching her movements, he shifted his weight to catch his attacker. The two werewolves grappled one another, snarling fiercely as each tried to pin the other. Stronger and more accustomed to the form he was in, the black wolf won out over his tawny foe, slamming her into the dirt. He stood above her with both front paws pressed into her chest, daring her to move, his teeth inches from her throat. 

She bellowed more unintelligible noises and snapped her jaws in an attempt to bite him. Try as she did, she could not budge his weight and he held fast. She couldn’t quite kick him away either, so she twisted her neck, bringing her forehead up to meet his nose in a sharp blow. He backed off with a yowl, and was taken to the ground by a forceful shove.

Tongue darting between her fangs, a furious huff wheezed out of her and she advanced again, but stopped short when she caught a scent like fire and metal on the wind. Soon after a shrieking roar carried through the treetops from high above. Her nostrils flared and instinct buzzed in her ears.

 _Prey comes._

Battle with the _strange-but-not_ male forgotten, she bolted off in the direction the sound had come from, out of the cover of the forest and into the field of mineral springs. While she loped toward a distant rise in the landscape, the body she now had began to feel natural. The power of her new muscles carried her almost effortlessly over the ground, and it felt _good_. Like she was born to run.

The dragon made its presence known again, and the air shook with the intensity of its Voice. Ismene howled back as though she could cover it with her own. It needed to know who would be taking its life.

“What are you doing?!” He was back, that hotshot from before, and he was chasing her. Was he trying to encroach upon her prey? Or did he intend to help her bring it down? He smelled of pack, after all. If he got in the way though, she’d take him out, too.

She didn’t stop to consider him any further; they’d arrived at the summit of the mound. 

There the dragon perched upon its crumbling wall, overseeing the remains of its kills—a veritable graveyard of mammoth and human remains. It didn’t move as it watched the werewolves intrude its home, but the way it sat, so comfortable on its bone strewn roost in the face of two predators, was infuriatingly condescending. 

“ _Dovahkiin_ ,” it rumbled, tilting its spiky head, “is this what felled the dotard Sahloknir yet again? Not only a _joor_ , but a… _raan_ as well? This is a great insult to all _dovah_ indeed.”

Bristling, she released a thunderous snarl that vibrated her whole body and rattled the pebbles and ossified shards near her feet. She could taste heat and ash on her tongue, and felt the waiting _Thu’um_ in her chest. Ordinarily she took care to avoid using it, but somehow not being able to physically speak the words felt like a great loss.

The dragon slowly climbed down from the word wall, piercing holes in the weathered stone with its claws as it went. Gold-flecked eyes blinked lazily and its shuddering hum reverberated off the rocks. It stopped far away enough that it would be safe from them if they attacked, but close enough to see the werewolf better.

“I hear it in you,” it mused, “Your _Thu’um_ pleads for escape. Are you able, _Dovahkiin?_ Or are you so feeble that it cannot muster the strength even to enter your throat?”

Its words sparked a fury in her like she had never experienced. With Divines and Daedra as her witness, it would lay dead by sunrise. 

Knowing there was no point in trying for a retort, she dropped down onto all fours and raced toward the dragon. She ducked low as it lunged at her, jolting upright at the last second to sink her nails into the wrinkled flesh at the bend of its jaw.

The dragon reared up and jerked its head to the side, breaking her hold and her claws left deep, red tracks in its hide. While she flew through the air, she twisted and caught the edge of a broken pillar. Immediately she sprang off it with her hind legs. Mid jump, she was head-butted, but this time her hands closed around its horns and she clung tightly. 

When the dragon’s throat was again within reach, Vilkas took his opportunity and struck, shredding his teeth through the skin under its chin as many times as he could before both of them were blasted away by a blizzard from its mouth.

_“FO KRAH DIIN!”_

Recovering from her somersault, Ismene shook out her coat to free herself of the frosty crust the dragon’s breath had piled over her. The ground underneath the icy blast had frozen over completely and made rushing back into battle difficult; she lost her footing and slid into her partner, who had raced ahead of her. Tangled together, they tumbled toward the dragon’s wing and were slapped apart as it took to the sky.

It came to rest on the word wall and sneered, “weak! Just as I thought!”

“You are bleeding an awful lot,” he snapped back through breathing that whistled with effort.

It was true—a steady stream of the stuff oozed from gouges around its eyes as well as the base of its head and down its long neck, running in thick rivers between the scales. 

“Inconsequential! My might is unmatched!”

Irritated, the dragon swooped down off the wall like a diving falcon, landing on the knuckles of its wings. It pushed its biting snout forward again, but this time they were ready. Vilkas went for the jugular, attaching himself with all his limbs. It picked him off with the thumb of its wing and flicked him away into the structure where he collapsed in a heap at the base of it.

“And now for you, _Dovahkiin_.” Teeth bared, the dragon stalked toward her tauntingly, tail swaying like an incensed cat.

The all-consuming pressure of rage forged a blade inside her chest and it was all she could do not to blindly leap into its waiting jaws in an effort to carve it up from the inside. It would not get the best of her! It was the target of _her_ hunt, _her_ prey!

The dragon took advantage of her moment of hesitation and lunged forward again, wide mouth ready to swallow her whole.

Bracing herself, she stood upright at the last second and seized its chin in one hand, nose in the other to prevent it from clamping its teeth around her. A Shout came to her without provocation, spoken as if with her true lips.

_“FUS RO DAH!”_

The dragon was struck point blank, and its head whipped out of her grip so fast that she sailed backward off the side of the hill. A resounding crack from its neck followed by a strangled roar were the last sounds it made.

Her mind went completely blank after the dragon soul settled within her. It was too sudden for her to come to grips with the feeling, but it was as though she had been forcibly disconnected from herself. A high pitched ringing in her ears heralded the onset of crippling fatigue that turned her knees to jelly and her weakened leg buckled beneath her. Her vision went momentarily black, and the first thing she registered when it returned was how cold she was.

Shivering, she tucked her legs close to her chest, wrapping her arms around her knees and discovered that she had changed back. Why was that so abrupt? Was that how it worked? What if she was still in the middle of battle? Even so, she could feel a kernel of energy in the back of her mind, feeble but there, motionless as if restrained.

_A common beast holds no power over a dragon._

With a shaky sigh, she rested her forehead on her kneecaps and sat in silence until something dropped unceremoniously in front of her. A bundle of patchy, stained furs and leather. 

“Put those on.”

She peered up to find Vilkas standing above her dressed in a mismatched and ill-fitting plate. He stared pointedly away from her and it was only then that she realized just _why_ the chill bit her.

“Well that’s inconvenient,” she muttered dully as she slipped the too-large tunic over her head. “Where’d these come from? They _reek_.”

“There was a chest by the wall,” he pointed, “some of it came off a corpse, but it’s better than nothing.”

Standing, Ismene shuffled hastily into the rest of it, praying that it was bug-free. She started a wry comment about dogs and fleas, but her only audience had wandered back to the Word Wall. She too, was curious—she’d come close to it during the fight, but heard nothing from it. Were werewolf ears deaf to ancient languages?

Idly she joined him before it, and right away the song began, as if in answer to her unspoken question.

The surface of her skin prickled with cold that quickly sank into her lungs. Each breath she drew felt like she’d inhaled shards of ice. The branches of her airways became tangible with deadly quickness, frost solidifying all of them in spite of the heat of her blood. Hacking coughs wracked her body, doubling her over at the waist, each wheeze erupting as a visible puff which froze her lips and tongue nearly solid.

The word _‘fo’_ , _frost_ , whispered the breath back into her, spoken not by the singers, but in the voice of _the dragon she’d just slain_. There was no question regarding its meaning—it was like the dragon had taught it to her itself, in its own understanding. A gift of power taken in its death. Was this the price of growing her Voice? It was a tad counterproductive to the Way—in order to reach the one who could guide her properly she had to commit acts of violence.

Then again, this was also Delphine’s idea of what a Dragonborn should be, and the path she’d unwittingly chosen. Or more accurately, one she’d had forced upon her.

Chills vanishing as though they hadn’t been—as she knew they would, she caught the disgruntled expression Vilkas shot her way.

“What?”

“I was speaking to you,” he grumbled. Uncrossing his arms, he gestured to the structure. “I _asked_ if you know what this is.”

Unable to resist a jibe, she answered bluntly, “it’s a wall.”

Seeing the flat look on his face, Ismene barely suppressed a grin that still emerged as a weak smirk. Shrugging, she took a seat on the broken stair leading up the platform. 

“It’s… written in the Dragon Tongue, _Dovahzul_ —I can’t read it, not yet.” And without the Greybeards’ tutelage she may never, but she couldn’t seem to make herself feel left behind by it. She paused as he lowered himself beside her. Unconsciously, she inched closer for his warmth, careful of how she moved her deeply chilled toes over the rough stone. “One word I can pick out. Something to do with ‘frost’. I think… now I can do what that dragon did—freeze my breath.”

“So… would you say your ‘breath is long winter’?”

She rolled her eyes. “Divines preserve me. If I did this in the middle of town, Heimskr would probably stab me, or order a warrant for my head on charges of blasphemy.”

“He may venerate you.”

“…I’m not sure which is worse.”

A long, exhausted silence fell between them and they watched quietly as the first hints of dawn loitered above the horizon.

“So…” she started, clearing her throat, “am I going to be overcome with the desire to chase Khajiit? Will I become the scourge of couriers everywhere? I draw the line at pissing on trees, though.”

The sudden sting of his gaze destroyed all of her levity.

“Not what you expected, is it?” His voice was heavy, more weary than scathing however, as though he felt constrained to speak.

She didn’t have to ask what he was referring to. Beginning with her inability to use her own language in that form—a close second to the unfathomable pain of transforming—the experience was a far cry from what she’d witnessed during her hunt with Aela and Skjor. Her throat went dry as it all began to descend upon her. She had truly believed it would be simple—the strength would be hers to command, like a tool. Instead, the reins were taken by the wildness of the wolf’s instincts and she had actively sought out a _dragon_ , as _prey_.

It could have been a person.

It could have been Vilkas—and nearly was.

Memories resurfaced of her questions to Ingemar when she was a girl, and more importantly his answers.

 _“The Hounds of Hircine are more active than most realize. What might appear as a normal wolf from afar may very well be one—but by the time you find out it’ll be at your throat,”_ she remembered his grave, but calm warning. _“When they lose control, it won’t matter if you’re dearly beloved to them. They’re no different than a starved animal at that point. Blood is blood, no matter whose.”_

A significant part of her—likely the defiant dragon soul—was adamant she would never succumb. It was this that bore her protest.

“Aela and Skjor—”

“—have been werewolves for _years_. Perhaps, in the case of the latter, longer than either of us has been living.” He was quick to debate. “You, a matter of hours. Aela in particular has near perfect mastery of her beast. Whatever it was she promised you requires work, and sacrifice.”

Becoming a killer. The implication was enough.

Ismene drew her knees to her chest again and stared listlessly at the ground beneath her thinly wrapped feet. If that’s what it took, she would train her wolf to crave a specific kind of blood. Her eyes flicked to the dragon skeleton, trying to teach the image to whatever lurked in the back of her mind. She felt it move, fluttering in her head and behind her ribs like a caged bird under the promise of freedom. It wasn’t out of reach, but it was too drained to surface fully.

“I meant what I said. I need this. The dragons, they…”

“From what I’ve seen they are pushovers,” Vilkas grunted, “that can’t do much against organized force.”

“Don’t you dare say that! Think about Helgen, and Morthal.” She wanted to punch him. “Don’t you get the feeling there’s more to this? As if our progress—if you could call it that—has been _given_ rather than earned?”

The black dragon—Alduin—hadn’t revived Sahloknir a second time. It had watched and flown away, as if it had been testing her, and found her unworthy of trying to kill. Like she was insignificant.

The dragon in her roared its rebellion against the notion. 

Then again, maybe Delphine's paranoia really was catching.

“I don’t know. This is all I’ve witnessed. But…” he scratched his chin. “I do recall reading bits and pieces about the Dragon Cult and the war ended by the Tongues. It’s not much, but I get your point.” He leveled a serious look on her, customary frown in place. “If you can’t handle what you have become, those are distant troubles. You can’t save us from them if you go feral and disappear or get yourself killed.”

“So what are you saying? You, of all people, are telling me to get used to using it?”

He sighed, looking tired. 

“My personal choices and opinions haven’t bothered you before, so why start now? You wanted this and got it, so deal with it. Try not to make my brother’s mistake while you do.”

She knew what that meant. 

“We’ve had this discussion. No one needs to know and they—” her train of thought ground to an abrupt halt and she sucked in air through her teeth.

“Lydia.”

“What about her?”

“Where is she now?” she demanded, grabbing a fistful of his sleeve. “What happened last night? How did we end up out here?”

Peering at the fingers that touched him, Vilkas gingerly lay a hand atop her grip. 

“Relax. I sent her to an apothecary in Windhelm to get a potion of cure disease for you. You were feverish and looked quite ill—but of course we know why that was. It won’t do you any good, but it got her out of the way.”

“And if I somehow end up transforming while she’s near? She’s my friend—I can't lie to her, not forever.”

“Well then, you’ll have to be careful, won’t you?”

##########

They made it back to the Braidwood Inn in longer time than Ismene had wanted, but running wild the night before hadn’t mysteriously healed her sprained leg, and she didn’t want to pay Kynesgrove’s mage for another healing. Of course, Vilkas’s assistance was limited and she ultimately gave up on it, having grown annoyed with his incessant ‘advice’ that was borderline insulting. 

The innkeeper and his wife had both swiftly learned to not ask too many probing questions about her health or the jumbled gear they wore. Awkward, curious silence filled the room when either were present, for filling a bath or bringing food, but hasty exits were made.

Clean, fed, and worn out, she lay in her bed wide awake, counting the rings in the ceiling beams. There was a persistent ache in her body, which felt overstretched and heavy; the muscles under her eyes twitched, yet they would not stay closed. She tossed and turned for the better part of the morning, only managing a fragile doze throughout.

Her hard won sleep was quickly disturbed and she was startled into full wakefulness when the door to her room opened with a bang. In strode Lydia, followed closely by Vilkas, who appeared to be trying to prevent her entrance.

“Let go,” she hissed. She sounded drained. “I rode all night and wasted gold on a second horse to get this potion and I will administer it.”

“It’s not necessary,” he whispered harshly. “I took her to Eldergleam Sanctuary and found one of Kynareth’s healers. Her fever came from her injuries, but she’s fine now.”

Face still pressed into the mattress, Ismene frowned. 

“…I _rode all night_ and now you tell me I didn’t need to? She will get the potion, healer or not.”

“The potion was a failsafe. You can sell the horse.”

“I suppose, but—”

“No rest for the wicked, I see.” She sat up and threw her pillow. It flew between them and hit the wall with a soft thump. 

“Oh. Apologies, my Thane. I’m glad you’re feeling better.” Lydia coloured in embarrassment, turned on her heel and left.

“Out.” Ismene pointed at the door when Vilkas hesitated.

“Is it quiet?”

“It was before the two of you barged in.” She lay down and pulled the woolen blanket over her head.

“I meant—” Her wolf.

“It’s fine, now leave.”

The door shut with a soft click, but slumber didn’t return to her. In between what Delphine had told her, what they had discovered the dragons doing, and the night before she should have been out like a light, but she wasn’t comfortable, and something felt off about the room itself. She was restless now, with the feeling in her gut that she should be alert, that sleep shouldn’t happen outside her territory. 

Too much danger.

Crunching into a tight ball, she took a fistful of blanket in one hand and hit the bed with the other. 


End file.
